Pieces of Me Page 2

  All of it controls me, even now, nearly three years after a storm freed me from hell.

  I’d gone back to college, but I never did pursue being an art teacher. That was what I’d wanted…well, before. There was no way I could stand that now. People would watch me. Want to talk to me. Ask me questions.

  I went into graphic design instead and that was better. I could work from my home. I was safe there. Safe inside those walls, where he couldn’t watch me. Where he couldn’t spy.

  Where I was alone.

  But sometimes…being alone is just too much.

  Sometimes, being alone just sucks.

  Too often, I still feel as though I’m trapped in some awful nightmare.

  I’m so desperately ready to wake up.

  Sighing, I settled down at my favorite table and took a sip of my coffee. The water was rough today. It matched my mood and I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the waves crashing against the beach soothe me.

  The hours passed by too fast, yet it was a slow, almost pleasant crawl. I was blissfully aware of the sun on my back, the wind in my hair.

  And him.

  There was another reason I loved coming to the beach.

  Another reason I liked sitting there.

  I don’t know his name. He’s at the beach almost as often as I am and if he’s ever noticed me staring at him, he hasn’t given any sign. So I let myself stare and I let myself watch. I let myself wish.

  Sometimes, just looking at him makes me hurt inside. It’s a pins-and-needles sort of feeling, as if something in me is trying to come back to life—slow, painful life.

  I watch him and I think about what it would be like if I had the courage to go up to him and say hi.

  If I had the courage.

  But he was the kind of man who was forever out of my reach.

  It was safer that way, too. He was larger than life, full of heat and energy and a raw kind of masculine beauty that made the body go almost numb.

  He was too intense. Too big. Too there. And he had a way about him that made me think he could be cruel. He had a wolf tattooed across his back and since I didn’t know his name, I called him Lobo.

  Big, dark and built, he looked like he belonged to the beach. Or maybe the beach belonged to him. His hair was so short, it looked like he buzzed it off with a razor every day when he rolled out of bed. Thoughts of him and bed made my heart jump around inside my chest and needs I’d forgotten I even had stirred inside me.

  There was a tattoo over his left pectoral—a vivid starburst—although I’d never been close enough to see the details too clearly. On his back was that wolf. A massive, snarling wolf. It started low on his spine, stretched up across the elegant, ridged muscles and finished with the wolf’s muzzle around his left shoulder.

  Maybe Lobo seemed an odd name for him, but he stalked the beach like a predator and I needed to have some name for him since I couldn’t just think him every time I saw him, thought of him. Dreamed of him.

  And I did dream about Lobo.

  The dreams about him were the only respite I had from my nightmares. Hot and sweaty dreams, the kind I’d never thought I’d have again. Torrid, dirty dreams that had me moaning and clenching my thighs together, longing to touch…and be touched.

  Dreams that had me waking feeling empty, filled with longing.

  Wishing I was anybody but who I was.

  Wishing I had the courage to reach out and take what I wanted, what I needed.

  And I so desperately needed.

  My skin prickled and I looked up as his gaze casually brushed over me. Our gazes collided and my breath caught in my throat before I looked back down, staring at the sketch in front of me.

  It was Lobo again.

  He was naked…again.

  My favorite way to portray men.

  It wasn’t always sexual, but lately, that was how I did it. I couldn’t find any other means of satisfaction and I didn’t see that changing. The fear inside me was too great. It wasn’t that I feared sex, exactly.

  After the first hellish year of my marriage, my husband had stopped wanting sex with me. He might force me, but sex, lovemaking…the intimacy, all of that had ceased.

  He used to taunt me with it, because I think he knew I’d wanted it. Not necessarily with him, but…just sex. The connection. The intimacy. The feel of a body pressed against mine. I’d wanted to be wanted. But he’d denied me that. Even as he’d battered me in every other way imaginable.

  There were nights when I’d wake up with my face shoved into the pillow while he tore into me and I’d bite my lip bloody to keep from crying. When it was over, he’d tell me about the whores, his mistress, even how he had more pleasure just jacking off in the shower—all things that were better at getting him off than me.

  And to think I’d thought that was hell. That was nothing. That was easy. I hadn’t really known hell until—

  My mind shied away. I couldn’t think about the final months.

  I didn’t want to, either.

  I wanted to think about here…about now.

  The beach, the sun shining down on my back, so hot and intense, the wind teasing at my hair, the rhythmic lull of the ocean as the waves crashed into the sand. Voices…always voices. I craved the sound of people now, even if I didn’t know them.

  Just as I craved the light, the feel of the sun shining down on me, and the sight of people. Old, young, unattractive, or so beautiful they made the heart sigh. It didn’t matter.

  Right now, though, I was sketching the one who made my heart sigh and my body yearn.

  Sketching out the image of the man. Lobo…the focus of all the hot and crazy dreams. The only focus. The relief from my nightmares.

  This sketch was a bad one to be doing here.

  He was standing, his back braced against a wooden post, the sand under his feet, waves washing up around him. And his hands were fisted in my hair. I was on my knees in front of him, fully dressed, while I took his cock into my mouth.

  Drawing it was the most arousing sort of foreplay, and the most frustrating, because there would be no end, no way to fulfill this aching hunger. Heat gathered in me as I imagined taking that cock inside my mouth, wondering how close I was to really capturing how he would look naked. A pulse of hunger throbbed deep inside me and I bit my lip to stifle a groan as I imagined how his hands might tighten to urge me on.

  He wouldn’t be a gentle lover.

  I don’t think I needed a gentle lover.

  What I needed, what I craved, was a lover, period.

  Somebody who wanted me. Needed me.

  My face was flushed and hot as I finally finished the sketch. I was going to embarrass myself if I tried another one like that out here. Embarrass myself or just leave myself too shaky to make the walk back home. Unless I took a plunge into the waves crashing against the beach.

  I flipped to a fresh sheet of paper and started a new sketch.

  His hands this time. Just his hands.

  They fascinated me. Long fingers, broad palms.

  Were his hands rough? How would they feel rasping—

  “Watch out!”

  I flinched and cowered, instinctively curling in on myself and not even a second later, pain licked across my cheekbone, spreading up. Numbness hit a second after that and the fear, always hidden so close under the surface, crept out.

  The football lay on the ground next to me and I stared at it, my eyes tearing as my head started to ache and pound.

  The familiar wisp-wisp-wisp of footsteps falling across the sand caught my attention and I jerked my head up, watching as two of the college boys who liked to hang out at the beach came running toward me.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  The haze of confusion started to clear and I pieced together what had happened. He wasn’t here—my ex. He hadn’t found me. Hadn’t hit me. I wasn’t in danger. It was a football. It had hit me. I was okay. My head hurt and my face hurt, but I was okay. I’d taken so much worse.

&n
bsp; “Ma’am?”

  The sound of that worried voice almost shattered me and I realized it didn’t matter if my ex-husband wasn’t here. I was going to fall apart soon.

  I jerked my head around and started to gather up my supplies.

  Leave. I had to leave.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I jerked back, falling on my ass onto the sand.

  Now, the slow, hot rush of blood started to creep up my cheeks and those two boys stood over me, watching me. One had a smirk on his face and he didn’t bother to hide it. The other looked bewildered. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, lifting one hand and then letting it fall helplessly to his side. “You…your face is red.”

  “Leave the freak alone, Tony,” his friend said, nudging him in the shoulder. “She looks like she’s going to scream rape all because you touched her. Come on, let’s—”

  The kid turned and stopped in his tracks.

  I stopped as well, my breath frozen, everything in me frozen, as horror slammed into me.

  He was there, too. Just a few feet away and he had a grim look on his face.

  Lobo. Whatever his name was.

  “Ah…hey, Jinx.” The long, lanky college kid guy smiled, but even despite my fear, I could see the strain on his face. “How are you?”

  Jinx? His name was Jinx? Or maybe it was short…for…for something. Staring at my knees, I tried to get my legs underneath me so I could move, get to my feet, get away. But my limbs were frozen. I was frozen, all but locked in place with shock and fear and horror. Get away. Get away.

  I tried so hard to deal with the panic attacks. But sometimes, they crept out to bite me in the ass, and this one was so close I could already feel its teeth.

  “How am I?” Lobo asked, his face drawn tight as he took a step toward the kid who’d been mocking me. “You don’t want to ask. You pull a shit thing like that and then be an asshole about it? Get the fuck out of here.”

  As they got the fuck out of there, the fear that had frozen me finally loosed its grip and I was able to move. Needed to get out of there. I felt exposed.

  So exposed, kneeling on the sand to pick up my sketch pad. The sketch I’d just drawn was right there and I hurriedly snapped the book shut. A blush scalded my cheeks red as I turned and snatched up my charcoal pencils, the eraser, everything I’d dropped as fast as I could. As I reached for one of my smaller sketchbooks, a shadow fell across the sand in front of me. A bronzed hand closed around the book.

  The lump in my throat was going to choke me. I couldn’t breathe around it, and I couldn’t swallow. But I couldn’t stay there, staring at my knees either. Slowly, I dragged my gaze up and met his.

  He had pretty eyes, I noticed inanely. Too pretty for that rugged face of his. The dark brown was velvety, almost soft, and spiky, curly lashes framed that velvety brown. Right now, he was watching me with an assessing stare. His gaze roamed over me before shifting to my cheek. Bluntly, he said, “That’s going to bruise if you don’t ice it.”

  I don’t know why I blurted it out, but the words came rushing up my throat and I couldn’t stop them.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been bruised.” Absently, I reached up and touched the mark on my face, felt the tenderness of it under my questing fingers. Nothing was broken. Sadly, I knew how that felt, too.

  His mouth went tight around the corners and his eyes flattened. He carried a lot of emotion in his eyes. I couldn’t really decipher what those emotions were, but they were there. One straight, thick black brow arched. “Yeah? You do anything about it?”

  “Not much.” I clambered to my feet and shook the sand out of my skirt before I turned back to get the rest of my stuff off the table. “I got away from him. That’s about it.”

  “That’s more than most do.”

  I didn’t look at him as I headed off. I didn’t run. But it sure as hell felt like it.

  Chapter Two

  One of my sketchbooks was missing.

  I hadn’t noticed it until now and that meant it could have been missing for hours. Arms folded over my middle, I tried not to rock myself as I stared at the neat stack of sketchbooks.

  There should be three.

  The big one that I used at the beach—the one with all the images of naked people—mostly men, most of them of Lobo. A smaller one that I used if I had the urge to draw a sunset or maybe the beach after a storm. And an even smaller one that I kept to use if I had a panic attack. I’d draw ugly sketches then, usually of my ex-husband, the way he’d look as he hurt me. Then I’d burn the images, or tear them into shreds. An oddly cathartic form of art.

  There should be three.

  There were only two.

  And the one that was missing… Oh, shit.

  It was the worst one to have lost.

  After getting back from the beach, I’d gone straight to the shower, locked myself inside and had a mini-breakdown. Then I’d gotten ready for the day and spent my entire time working. Several rush jobs had kept me busy, which was good because I didn’t have much time to think and it was better if I didn’t have to think.

  But now it was late and once I’d started to go through my regular routine—had I checked the locks? I couldn’t remember. I checked them once, and then went back and checked them a second, and third time. Then I couldn’t remember if I’d put everything in its spot because things looked off.

  That was because things where off—the missing sketchbook.

  Maybe he’d gotten in—

  “No,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head almost violently. That wasn’t it. He hadn’t gotten in and none of his hired thugs had, either.

  I checked everything over just in case and then I checked the security cameras.

  Nobody had been inside, all day. Except me. I spent thirty minutes going over the feed and then I went over it again, focusing on just the windows and the doors.

  I stood in my apartment, going through the compulsive little routines that let me think I had some modicum of privacy. Drawing all the curtains. Powering down all the electronics, especially the five cell phones. Yes, there were five because right before our second anniversary, he’d taken my phone and now I worried he’d break in and do it again, cutting me off from the outside world. If I couldn’t call for help—

  “You can. Stop it,” I said, shoving a hand into my hair and fisting it. The phones weren’t the problem. My missing sketchbook was.

  A sob ripped out of me and I pressed my fingertips to my lips.

  Those sketches were the one thing that was mine. Losing even one of them was like losing a piece of my soul.

  Closing my eyes, I made myself think about where I’d seen it last.

  I’d come home from the beach and I’d been so upset, so flustered from seeing Lo— No. His name was Jinx. I’d met him. Seeing him had flustered me and just that was enough to make me need a drink. I’d almost taken a glass of wine into the shower with me, but I’d made myself settle for a pot of tea once I dried off.

  If I drank in the middle of the day, I ended up sleeping, and then I couldn’t sleep at night. But I had met him.

  I hadn’t checked my sketchbooks. I must have left it…at the beach.

  What if he saw it?

  Oh, no. Horror and shame flooded me. He’d think me pathetic for sure. If he’d seen it. Those desperate, pathetic little renderings. And what if he felt offended? That was even worse. What was I thinking—

  Stop it. It’s art. You never meant for anybody to see it, I chided myself, trying to get a grip before the shame spiraled out of control. No, I’d never meant for anybody to see it, but I still felt naked, thinking about it out there. Naked, and exposed. More exposed than I’d felt in a long time. Years, in fact. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been during the exams at the hospital, but it was far worse than you would think, considering all I’d done was lose a sketchbook.

  Silly as it was, knowing I’d left it where others could see it, I felt violated. It was wrong of me to feel lik
e that. I’d been violated. Exposed. Stripped bare. There was no reason to feel like that over a sketchbook.

  Even if it did have every private and personal thing in it, thinking of it as a violation… But it was more than a sketchbook. It was my freedom. Where I could slip away from myself.

  Now my escape was gone.

  Moving to the window, I pushed the concealing curtains back and stared outside. And even as I did it, I saw a flash of movement from the apartment just across the street, two doors down. My despised shadow, watching me, even now.

  Just then, I didn’t care.

  I’d left that piece of me out there.

  I wouldn’t sleep.

  Not tonight.

  I wanted to go out there and look for it.

  But I couldn’t.

  It was already dark. And as much as I needed my sketchbook, I couldn’t brave the dark.

  When you live in dread, time trickles by so slowly. That was the next twelve hours. Slow second by slow second, miserable hour by miserable hour.

  I worked through the night. I paced. I checked the curtains, twisted the locks, went through each routine where I had to check the windows. Once, twice, three times…and it still wasn’t enough. I didn’t feel safe. I felt naked and there were times when I felt so dirty and filthy and the three showers I took that night weren’t enough to make me feel clean.

  There are numerous names for what’s wrong with me.

  I have post-traumatic stress syndrome, but considering everything that had been done, that was to be expected.

  I had developed OCD. It didn’t happen overnight. It became more apparent in the days after I came home from the hospital, staying first in a shelter for battered women, and then in an apartment one of the counselors had helped me find. The therapist I’d started seeing asked about weird habits—did I check locks, ever find myself getting up out of bed to do that?

  It didn’t occur to me that it was weird until she pointed out that it was interfering with my sleep, and then my daily routine. Absolutely, that counts as weird.

  She explained it was a coping mechanism, a way to make myself feel safer, but we had to keep it under control. The anxiety was sort of expected, as was the post traumatic stress disorder.