His Belt (Part Ten) Read online

  “They’re fine,” Ryan says distractedly, which doesn’t bode well for his future as a stepfather. I wonder what Kira would think if she knew he was exposing her children to potentially life-threatening infections.

  I shrug. The good thing about not having children is that whatever children happen to be around are someone else’s problem.

  I glance into my father’s room. The bed is empty, and for a moment, my stomach twists. But I relax a second later, knowing that if he were dead, my brother wouldn’t be so upbeat.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask, impatient. It’s killing me that I had to leave Abigail in Hailey’s hospital room by herself. Yes, there are two police officers there. Yes, my security is stationed outside of Hailey’s room.

  But still. I could have brought her with me, but after what happened in the club, she wasn’t taking too kindly to my demands.

  After what happened in the club. Jesus. I close my eyes and take in a breath, the scene flash banging in my brain.

  Hitting her with the belt, even after both of us had come.

  Wanting to cause her pain.

  The shocked look of hurt on her face, the tears that had run down her cheeks.

  Jesus Christ, Elijah. What have you done?

  “Eli, are you listening to me?” Ryan asks. “They took him up for a scan to make sure.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “Eli, focus!” Ryan grabs at my arm excitedly. “He’s waking up. Dad is waking up!”

  “That’s impossible,” I say, and my voice sounds far away, as if I’m talking to him through an underwater tunnel.

  “No, it’s not.” Ryan runs his hand through his hair and starts his pacing again. “They’re not sure how long it will take, how much brain function he’ll be able to recover. We have to wait for Dr. Aveda to come in, and she won’t be here until tomorrow, but he’s responding to stimulus.”

  “Is he talking?” I demand.

  Ryan shakes his head. “No, he’s not talking, Eli.” Ryan looks frustrated, like he can’t believe I would expect something like that so soon. “He’s blinking his eyes in response to questions, though, and he’s turning his head toward lights and sounds.”

  I look toward my father’s empty room.

  He’s waking up.

  He might be able to talk soon.

  And once he does, he might remember things.

  Things about the day he almost died.

  And what really happened.

  Chapter 3

  ABIGAIL

  “This really isn’t necessary,” Hailey says as I lead her into one of the many guest rooms at Elijah’s house. I flick the light on.

  “Don’t be silly,” I say. “You’ll stay here, at least for tonight. Although I guess it’s not really night anymore.”

  We’ve been at the hospital for hours, and now the sun is starting to rise, the sky starting to lighten and peek through the fancy-looking Venetian shutters that cover the windows.

  “Wow,” Hailey says, looking around. “This is a guest room? It’s freaking huge.” She takes in the king-sized bed, the en suite bathroom, the polished wood floors, the windows that provide a sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline.

  “Yup. And you’re a guest. Which means you can use whatever you need.”

  Hailey follows me into the bathroom as I open the linen closet. It’s filled with fluffy-looking towels and an array of bath products – lotions, shampoos, bath salts, shower gels…

  “Everything you need is in here,” I say. I return to the bedroom and grab the bag that Elijah had his assistant get from Hailey’s apartment, bring it back to the bathroom and set it down on the floor. “Why don’t you get changed? Let me know if you need help.”

  I leave her to it, then rummage through my purse and pull out the pain meds we picked up at the twenty-four hour pharmacy on our way back to Elijah’s. I set them down on the nightstand, then take a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge that sits discreetly in the corner and set that down as well.

  “How’s your pain?” I ask when she returns. She’s dressed in a cozy-looking pair of pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt.

  “It’s better,” she says groggily, sinking into the bed and pulling the covers up around her.

  “Good. Text me if you need anything, okay?” I say, making sure her phone is within easy reach.

  She nods, but her eyes are already closing.

  I take one more glance around, then leave, making sure to leave the door open just a tiny bit.

  When I return to the living room, Elijah isn’t there.

  Chase stands by the fireplace, his hands clasped in front of him.

  “Miss,” he says, and nods at me.

  I nod back, not sure how I’m supposed to address him. “Chase. Where’s Mr. Armstrong?”

  “He went to work out, miss.”

  “Thank you.” I give him another nod and then head toward the other side of the sprawling apartment, hoping I look like I know where I’m going. It would be pretty embarrassing to have to admit to the security guard that I don’t exactly know where the gym is in this place. I mean, I have a vague idea. But this apartment is so damn big, and I’ve never been to the gym before.

  I head up the stairs, taking them two at a time, until I get to the top floor. The hallway branches into two directions, and I take a chance and head toward the east side of the apartment, opening a door at the east side of the apartment.

  Once I’m through it, I gasp.

  Jesus.

  One half of the sprawling top of the building has been encased in a tinted dome of glass, the kind that you can see out of but not into. It looks out over the city, the lights of the buildings twinkling and sparkling in the soft dawn light.

  A couple of treadmills and all other manner of sleek fitness equipment are arranged tastefully around the rectangular room. There’s a bar in the corner with a blender and fridge, a stretching area where the floor is covered in soft mats, and a sauna tucked discreetly into a small wooden alcove.

  Taking up one side of the room, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, is an infinity pool. The kind that blows out water at a pressure designed to keep you doing laps even though you’re not really going anywhere.

  Elijah’s in there now, his body pushing through the water in smooth strokes. Over the sound system – which I’m sure is state-of-the-art -- a rock song blares through the speakers, something heavy with a pounding beat that I can feel in my chest.

  I approach the pool slowly, standing next to it, my arms crossed, until Elijah notices me.

  He reaches over and turns off the pool, then the music, using an app on his phone.

  His eyes meet mine as he rises out of the water, droplets clinging to his golden skin. He’s wearing only a pair of blue swim trunks, and they dip low on his hips, accentuating the flatness of his belly, the six-pack of abs that flexes with his movements.

  “I’m waiting,” I say.

  He glances at me. “For what?”

  “For you to explain yourself.”

  “I thought I explained everything at the hospital. Ralph Palmer was upset about your mother using him for money. He was obviously trying to get to you, but he couldn’t because of your security, so he went after Hailey.”

  “And how did you know all of this?”

  “Because he showed up at my office demanding twenty thousand dollars.”

  My stomach twists. “And what did you do?”

  “I gave it to him. But it doesn’t matter. He’s been arrested now, and I’ll make sure we won’t have to worry about him again.”

  The police found Ralph Palmer two blocks from Somersault, eating pancakes in a twenty-four-hour diner. They arrested him, and he was taken into custody without incident.

  Elijah’s voice is devoid from emotion, and I watch as he dries himself off, running a towel over his muscles, over the cords in his shoulders and the ridges of his abs.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand.

&
nbsp; “What is what supposed to mean, Abigail?” He sounds annoyed, as if I’m a child who doesn’t get it, as if he’s already explained all of this to me a million times.

  “What does ‘I’ll make sure we won’t have to worry about him again’ mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, Elijah.”

  His eyes flicker with hunger at my disobedience, and his gaze dips down over my body. But I cross my arms over my chest, not backing down.

  Finally, he sighs, tossing his towel into a basket in the corner, where it will no doubt be picked up by one of his many invisible housekeepers.

  “What I mean is that he’s going to jail,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me killing him, if that’s what you were implying.”

  The way he says it sends a shiver up my spine. Something about his tone implies that he would do it if he had to, that he would kill someone if it meant protecting me.

  “And what about what happened in the club?” I ask.

  He shrugs and moves to the bar that’s set up in the corner. It’s sleek, all hard lines and chrome. A blender sits on top of it, and a next to that, a wire basket filled with artfully arranged packages of protein powder and supplements. A basket of fresh fruit – bananas, strawberries, oranges -- sits next to that.

  The bar is obviously intended to be used for an after-workout smoothie, or one of those disgusting shakes packed with spinach that you’re not supposed to be able to taste but always can.

  But Elijah produces a bottle of bourbon from somewhere, pours some into a crystal tumbler and downs it in one swig.

  “Elijah?” I prompt.

  “It happens. I got too excited. You did what you were supposed to do and used your safe word.”

  I shake my head. “No. That’s not what happened. That was… that was something else, Elijah, and you know it.” I remember the look on his face as he used his belt on me, the way he was hitting me with it, that raw power that seemed to have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with something else, something dark and primal.

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Abigail.”

  “No, we’ll talk about it now.”

  “It’s been a long night. Trust me, you do not want to push me right now.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I push you,” I say. “Not if you’re just going to go off and do whatever you want anyway.”

  A vein in Elijah’s temple throbs as he starts to pour himself another drink. I cross the distance between us, and move behind the bar, taking the bottle out of his hand.

  “Give it back,” he growls.

  “No.” I shake my head and clutch it to my chest. “Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Dammit, Abigail.” He picks up the glass in front of him, downs what he was able to pour, then throws it at the wall, where it shatters into a million pieces. The violence of the motion shocks me, and I gasp and take a step back.

  “Isn’t that what you want?” he demands, noticing my reaction. “For me to lose my shit?”

  “What?” I shake my head, confused. “No, Elijah, I don’t want you to lose your shit. I don’t want you to do anything except tell me the truth. I want you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Is that what you really want?” he asks. “Is it? You want me to tell you what happened in the club? Fine, I’ll tell you. What happened, Abigail, is that I hurt you.”

  “But why?” My eyes fill with hot tears.

  “Because that’s just who I am.”

  “I don’t believe that.” I shake my head, knowing it in my heart, even as he’s giving me every reason to believe what he’s saying.

  “Well, you should. That’s all I do, Abigail. I hurt people.”

  “That’s not true.” I take a step closer to him. He’s holding onto the bar now, his fists tightening around the chrome rail that circles the perimeter. I can feel the heat coming off of his body, and I’m not sure if it’s from the hot water of the pool or from his own emotions.

  I reach out and touch his bare shoulder, and he flinches, but doesn’t move away.

  “Why did you want to hurt me?” I ask gently.

  “Because!” he rages, and now he is pulling away from me, wrenching from my grasp and brushing past me.

  “Because why?”

  “Because I want you to leave me!” He’s breathing heavily now, and he scrubs his hand through his hair. “You need to leave me, Abigail, before I really do hurt you. Before I go too far, before I end up ruining you the way I’ve ruined everyone else.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Then I’ll keep doing it,” he warns, and now his eyes are going dark, the smooth planes of his bare chest moving up and down in time with the shallowness of his breathing. “I’ll keep hurting you, until finally I’ll go too far and you’ll have no choice. It’s what I do, Abigail. And the sooner you figure that out, the better.”

  His hands are fisted at his side, his brow heavy, his eyes still storming.

  “So that’s why you did it?” I ask softly. “Because you’re trying to make me leave you?”

  He walks over to the glass dome that encases the room, that looks out over the city, and rests his arm against it, then rests his forehead against his arm.

  I close my eyes, feeling the devastation that runs through my veins. I love him. I do. I love him and I want to be with him. But how can I be with someone who’s just admitted that he will do everything in his power, including hurting me, to push me away?

  I’m about to ask him this when another thought enters my mind. This -- him telling me that he’ll end up hurting me --is just another version of him trying to push me away.

  “Why?” I ask instead. “Why are you so determined to do that? Why would you want to push me away?”

  He says nothing, instead bracing himself against the window in front of him. The muscles in his back flex, the cords in his shoulders tight and taut. The lights of the city glitter in the background. He looks like an ad for an athletic company. And yet this isn’t an ad or a movie.

  This is real life.

  And this is the man I love.

  And I won’t let him do this.

  I won’t let him push me away.

  If there’s any chance of us staying together, then I’ll do whatever I need to make sure we take it.

  “So do it,” I say finally, thrusting my chin in the air.

  “What?” he asks without looking over his shoulder at me.

  “Do your worst.” I reach down and pull off my top. The warm air brushes over my bare skin, and goose bumps prickle my skin.

  “Abigail,” Elijah says, turning around. “Stop.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You just said you’re going to do whatever you can to push me away, that you’re going to keep hurting me until I leave you. So let’s just get it over with. Do your worst. Hurt me. Make me leave you.”

  “Stop.”

  “No.” I reach in front of me and unbutton and unzip my jeans, pulling them down and shimmying out of them. When I’m in just my bra and panties, I kneel on the floor in front of him and bow my head, waiting.

  “Abigail.”

  “Sir,” I say demurely, without raising my head to look at him. “Don’t you want me to be a bad little slut for you? Don’t you want to punish me until I’ve gotten what I deserve?”

  He stays quiet, and finally I dare to raise my eyes. He’s still standing there, shirtless, and he walks to me slowly, runs his thumb over my chin, probing my bottom lip.

  I take it between my lips, sucking it softly.

  “Abigail,” he says, his voice heavy with emotion. “I just… I can’t… I wish…”

  “Shh,” I say. “Please, Elijah. I want this. Show me. Show me how bad it can be.”

  He closes his eyes, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to tell me no, that he can’t. I’m afraid he’s going to tell me that it’s over, that this won
’t work no matter what.

  But when he opens his eyes, all he says is, “Go upstairs.”

  I wait for him outside of the playroom, on my knees.

  He makes me wait.

  Ten minutes.

  Twenty minutes.

  Thirty.

  My knees are screaming from kneeling on the hardwood, but I’m afraid that if I move, that will the exact moment he decides to come upstairs. And I need to show him that I can obey, that whatever he gives me, I can take.

  And besides, there’s no way that me kneeling out here, waiting for him, is the worst thing he has in store for me

  When he finally appears, I have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for him.

  Maybe an hour?

  I’ve lost all track of time.

  And as much as I’m telling myself that I’m doing this for him, my body is already thrumming with electricity. Of course I’m anxious about what’s going to happen – but I’m turned on too. An exquisite ache has settled in between my legs, and it’s only been intensifying the longer he’s kept me waiting.

  I make sure to keep my eyes down as he places his hand on the sensor by the door and it unlocks.

  “Crawl.” His voice is hard. Cold. Raw.

  I do as I’m told, crawling into the room on my hands and knees, still in just my bra and panties.

  “Ass higher. I want to see it.”

  I push my ass into the air, and I swear I can feel his gaze on my skin, the physical sensation of him watching me, even though he’s not touching me

  “Stop.”

  I do as I’m told.

  I raise my eyes up, watching as he crosses the room to the cabinet in the corner. The lights are dim, just enough to illuminate him from behind. He’s still shirtless, barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts.

  I watch as he begins to select instruments from the cabinet -- what looks like two whips and a belt – and then tosses them onto the bed.

  He shuts the cabinet with a click that echoes through the room. He pauses for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s deciding exactly what he’s going to do to me, or if he’s trying to decide if he should do it at all.