Divine (25 page)

"You've been without drugs for several days." Mary's statement was intended to show Emma that she trusted her. "Isn't that true?"

"Yes." She looked at the floor and rubbed the back of her neck. "But right now I want some bad."

"This is when the battle is its fiercest. In most cases, the physical addiction is broken after three days. But you used drugs as a way of coping." She paused. "I did too. The nightmares and lying, the pain I caused myself and the faithlessness. The drugs and even my promiscuity. All of it was a way to cope, a way to survive. And that's an addiction no power on earth can break."

"Exactly." Emma tossed up her hands. "So why the meetings? Why the story? I'll never be like you, Mary. You keep my girls, okay?" She pointed toward the window. "My life's out there. With Charlie."

"No it isn't." There was a cry in Mary's voice this time. "You can't believe that. That's a lie, and it always will be. Jesus wants to rescue you, same as He rescued me. Your girls need you, and they need you whole, free of all this bondage." Mary heard her voice grow still louder, more intense. "Don't start listening to the lies again, believing that Charlie has something you need or that drugs are the answer. Because that's all that garbage is. A pack of lies."

Emma gripped her knees and sat a little straighten "Maybe you better tell me more of your story."

"Okay." Mary forced herself to look relaxed.
God . . . the bat
tle is fierce. Help me. Give me words to keep her here.
"I have all day.
And so do you."

"When you tell me your story . . ." Emma's hands were shaking. She pressed them to her thighs. "I forget about mine for a little while."

"Good." Eventually Mary wanted Emma to connect the two stories, to see Mary's way of escape as her own. But for now it was enough if the story kept Emma's interest, if it kept her in her seat when every fiber of her being wanted to run through the front door, find the nearest dealer, and catch a ride back to Charlie's house. "If that's how you feel, I'll start where I left off."

"Clayton wanted more than friendship, didn't he?"

"Of course. I see that now. Back then I wasn't afraid of his making the next move, taking our friendship to another level. Even if he was married." Shame colored Mary's tone. "I thought I loved him, that he was the only man who loved me without wanting something from me."

***

Another week passed while Mary filed papers in the morning and held visits with Clayton most afternoons. By that Friday, conversations with him were no longer enough. Mary wanted to work her way deep into the heart of the man, to the place in his soul where she wouldn't be merely a pet in a beautiful cage.

But the woman he would need more than air.

Clayton was running late that day, and Mary wondered if maybe he wasn't going to visit her. But just before dinner he called. "I'm coming over," he told her. "I'll be there in an hour. I have some business to take care of."

Mary smiled to herself. She would be ready for him. Her shower lasted longer than usual, and she was careful to use all the best-smelling soaps and hair products. She understood Clayton much better now than the first time they'd met. He was a good man, a moral man. A man who didn't want to upset his wife. He had talked to her that week about faith in the human spirit, that sort of thing. A faith Nigel Townsend would've scoffed at.

She let thoughts of Nigel linger for a minute,- then she willed them away. He had moved on by now, focused his efforts on some other lost girl in need of Christ's love. She turned the shower hotter, and for a long time she let the water run over her. Hot water had never been so available, and showers were still one of the best parts of her new life. As the steady stream washed away the suds, she could picture the water taking with it all the ugliness and pain of her past.

Fresh from the shower she felt good about herself. The loss of her mama and her grandma was only a distant memory. Almost as if the love she felt for the two of them belonged to someone else entirely.

Mary dressed in her nicest clothes. Something else was clear now. The reason Clayton had said he'd have to kill her. He wasn't a crazy madman she needed to fear. His reason for saying that came from a devotion that was deeper than anything anyone had ever felt for her. He cared about her, and he'd told her so nearly every time they were together. Sometimes he brought up her past.

"I watched you on television that night, the night they rescued you." He studied her, his face tender. "I couldn't believe what that. . . that monster had done to you." Clayton was a calm man whose power and grace made for perfect control.  But when he talked about her past, his teeth came together and his voice sounded different. Full of rage.

"It's okay, Clayton. I'm here. I survived." She touched his face, his hands. Anything to get him to show her the affection she craved.

"It's not okay." He searched her eyes, looking straight to the cold, dark alleys of her soul. "If you were mine ... if you'd always been mine, that never would've happened."

Yes, his concern for her was almost beyond devotion. He may have been teasing about having to kill her if she talked to anyone about him, but his emotions were so intense it was possible he would kill someone else on her behalf. She could imagine it happening. It was why she wanted the upper hand, so he wouldn't hurt anyone because of her. If she had control, he would do whatever she asked, even if it meant giving her more freedom and loosening his hold on her.

"Mary?" She heard him come through the front door. He sounded breathless, unusual for him.

"Hi." She stepped out into the living room and watched the effect she had on him.

Usually he kept his eyes on hers, refusing to look below her face. But this time his eyes wandered down the length of her. "You look . . . perfect."

"Thanks." She came to him, stopping when they were only a few feet apart. The smell of alcohol rushed at her. This had happened twice that week. Clayton would come to her after he'd been drinking.

His breathing was ragged, fast and uneven. "Mary . . . what you do to me."

It was working. She closed the distance between them and tilted her face to his. "No, Clayton. What you do to me." She lifted her lips to him. "Let me show you."

He brushed his mouth against hers—not a kiss but the closest thing to it. He placed his hands on either side of her face. "What do you want to show me?"

Her answer needed no words. . . .

When it was over, after he promised he'd be back the next day, Mary smiled. The victory was hers. Clayton would fall in love with her for certain now,- it was only a matter of time.

But instead of falling in love with her, Clayton grew more agitated and distant with every visit. "Business," he told her. "There's trouble with my business."

Once, a few nights later, she and Clayton were kissing when she pulled away and asked him the question that was always on her mind. "Do you love me?"

He ran his thumb along her lower lip. "I
own
you." He smiled, but his tone was chilling. "Of course I love you."

His answer made her mad. "I don't like how you said that. People don't own people." She pointed to the entryway. "1 could walk out that door tomorrow and go back to the center, and you wouldn't have a thing to say about it."

"Actually—" he shifted and unbuttoned the collar on his dress shirt—"I thought I went over that."

"You told me I couldn't talk to people. I couldn't tell anyone about us." She crossed her arms. "But you didn't tell me I couldn't leave."

"Leaving brings on the same punishment." He gave a weak laugh, but he didn't sound for a minute like he was kidding. "Okay?"

She moved to the other end of the sofa. "You wouldn't kill me." She stared at him, forced him to look into her eyes, the piercing blue eyes that had cast spells on so many other men. "You wouldn't hurt me." She stood, feeling powerful. "The truth is, Clayton, you need me too much."

"Yes." The corners of his mouth flatlined. "Enough to kill for you, Mary. Enough to kill you."

For the first time, she was afraid. "I'm not kidding."

He didn't hesitate. "Me neither." Then, as if nothing were wrong, Clayton stood and joined her at the far end of the sofa. He pulled her down with him, even when she struggled to stay upright.

"Stop it!" She was stiff in his arms, the door to her heart closed shut. "You don't love me." The proud look was back. She could feel it. "Because you have a wife."

"1 told you—" he took hold of her shoulders and held her tight, too tight—"I own you. I couldn't love you more because you belong to me." He gave her a quick shake. "Only me."

"No." Mary jerked free from his grip and sprang to her feet. "I don't belong to
anyone."

Anger colored his features. "How dare you talk to me that way . . . after all I've done for you?" He rose and took a step closer. "I've risked everything for you."

"Stay away." She held her hand out, keeping her distance from him as she backed up. She turned and ran into the bedroom, shouting, "Leave me alone!"

He was only steps behind her. "Don't tell me what to do."  He knocked her hand away from her face. His anger intensified, seething from his eyes, his scowl, his force. "I'll do whatever I want to you." He shoved her roughly onto the bed.

"Get out of here!" Her voice was shrill. She tried to get up, but he had his hand on her shoulder. "You don't own me!"

Like a roaring fire exploding through a tinder-dry forest, rage engulfed him. She watched it happen in a matter of seconds. Clayton climbed onto the bed and gave her another shove, sending her sprawling onto her back. "I told you, Mary, 1
own
you."

"No ... go away!" She scrambled back toward the headboard. Her voice was loud and frantic, her face hot. "You can't—"

He crawled after her and grabbed her arm. Then he pressed his hand to her throat and pushed her down onto the pillow. She made a gurgling sound and shook her head, her eyes wide. She couldn't breathe, couldn't inhale even a precious bit of air. He could kill her—he really could. Fear swallowed her whole, and when his hand eased up, she shook as if she were having a seizure.

"1 do own you, Mary Madison." Clayton forced his lips onto hers. After a minute he pulled back. "Watch me prove it."

When it was over—after he'd taken her body and spirit, her dignity and determination—she lay in a heap, weeping for what he'd done.

Clayton stood over her. He touched her forehead with the strangest tenderness. "Shhh . . ." His voice was calm again, his anger spent. He wiped his thumb over her damp cheeks. "Stop crying, little one."

She whimpered in response and turned her face from him.

"I love you, Mary." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Don't forget that."

And in that moment, Mary had yet further proof that Nigel hadn't known what he was talking about. Love wasn't good and right and true. It was horrific and painful.

The way it had been as far back as she could remember.

The worst of it was this: even after he attacked her, Mary couldn't stop her fascination for Clayton. If love was what he felt for her, then she loved him too. Loved him the way she hadn't loved anyone in all her life. After he had raged on her and taken her against her will, after he had scowled at her and screamed at her and told her he owned her, she still loved him. She loved his strength and his power and the way he took care of her.

He had demonstrated love to her, what she knew of love, the way no other man had.

A week passed, and Clayton came to see her three times. Always he was gentle. He felt bad, clearly. She looked outside at the sunny Monday morning, the way the leaves were full and green on the streets below her penthouse. Ever since his attack on her, she had felt driven to go against Clayton's orders. Not just on principle. But because she had someone she needed to see.

Nigel Townsend.

She had enough money to easily pay for a cab, and maybe if she spent time with Nigel she could make sense of her feelings for Clayton. That, and she could get her little red purse. Once she had the idea in her mind, it wouldn't let go. Clayton wouldn't be by until that afternoon. What would a morning visit to the mission hurt? She wouldn't mention Clayton after all.

Finally, before lunch, she slipped her bag over her shoulder, locked the door behind her, and headed downstairs.

"Beautiful day, miss." The doorman grinned at her and tipped his hat. He was good-looking, twenty-five years old or so. In another life she might've been interested. But she lived for just one man now. Clayton Billings.

"Yes." She smiled at him. "I need a cab." She waited while a yellow cab pulled up. This was her first time in a taxi. She gave the doorman two dollars as she climbed inside, the way she'd seen it done in the movies.

"Where to?" The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.

For a moment she considered telling him New York City. She could take the cab all the way to some place familiar, find a phone book or someone who could help her locate her grandmother.

But two things stopped her. First, she couldn't do that to Clayton, not after all he'd done to set her up in the penthouse and give her the best clothes and makeup and jewelry, the best of his time every afternoon.