He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. And she couldn’t wait to let him.
An ache starts deep inside me and I roll to my side, facing the bedside table with my alarm clock on it. The time glows back at me, red digital numbers that say 1:09. I’ve felt this ache before, after I read a particular book or watched a certain movie. I experienced it when I went out to dinner with Mom and Brenna and saw a couple sitting at a nearby table exchanging longing glances and holding hands.
I finally figured out that the ache I felt was desire.
Desire for human touch—for a man’s touch. Something I believed I would never want. The feeling has always been fleeting. There and gone in a matter of minutes, and I would forget about it. Move on with my life and tell myself, That didn’t really happen. You don’t want that. You don’t need it.
I feel it now. Dark and warm in the pit of my stomach, maybe even lower, a trickle of hot liquid through my veins, slowly touching me everywhere, reminding me that I have a body. A body I don’t use, I don’t understand, I don’t touch.
I don’t allow anyone to touch.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate harder. The tingling. The heat. My muscles feel languid, my skin sensitive, and I know why I’m experiencing this. I understand the cause.
Meeting Ethan. The violence that brought us together and how he charged right in and saved me. I’m ashamed that his brute strength, the way he handled the situation, aroused me. Ashamed at how scared and flushed and excited I felt when I saw him grab the boy by the shirt. I thought he would hurt the kid. Hurt him for me. And God help me, I liked it. I wanted it. I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
The contradiction of his sweetness, how protective he was of me, a virtual stranger, aroused me further. Intrigued me. He touched me and I didn’t flinch. His fingers were like a hot brand on my flesh and just remembering the moment, I want more of it.
More of him.
A sigh escapes me and I let my mind drift. I blame the dreamy state of consciousness I’m in for the odd thoughts. And the nightmare. Why, after experiencing what ended up being a pretty good day, would I dream of Aaron Monroe?
Because you were at the place he abducted you, dummy.
True.
I reopened old memories. That’s all. I went to the amusement park to overcome my fear and I did something else. Something I never believed could happen.
A man touched me and I let him. A man asked me out for coffee and I went. A man asked me for my number and I gave it to him. The man texted and said he wanted to see me again and I agreed.
Maybe I really am on my way to conquering my fears.
I’m proud of Katie. When I called her a few nights ago and finally asked her to go to dinner with me, so damn nervous I was afraid my voice was shaking, she agreed—reluctantly. She said she’d do it only if we met each other in a public location.
Fine by me, I told her, and she sounded relieved.
That she didn’t fully trust me pleased me only because I want her safe. She shouldn’t easily place her trust in me—in anyone. She’s been through so much and she has every right to be wary, especially now that she’s told her story to the entire nation. I have no idea how many people watched, but I bet it was a ton. Everyone’s fascinated with a story like Katie’s.
I’m fascinated with the woman, not just her story. Not just her path. I was there. I lived it. Was a part of it and contributed to her survival. Yet a part of me—almost the entire whole of me—wants to forget that. I crave the past connection with Katie but I don’t want to remember the details. The whys and the wherefores.
It’s like I’m starting fresh and new with her, though I have an advantage. I know all about her, but she doesn’t know me. Well, she doesn’t know the new me. Ethan.
Even the old me, she didn’t know that well. She probably wouldn’t have liked him much anyway. I hadn’t been the best kid, given the terrible example I had growing up. No mom, a dad who used yet was useless. When I was little I could never play Little League baseball or peewee football, and I wanted to. Desperately. But that shit cost money and we didn’t have it, so my father always denied me. I’d go to the local park on Saturday mornings and watch. Watch the kids my age, the kids I went to school with, play soccer and football and baseball. Envy ate at me, made me angry and frustrated, but no one cared.
No one.
I practiced, though. Whenever I could. Played sports during elementary school during P.E. and recess. Kicked balls around, threw them, made baskets, idolized my third-grade teacher, Mr. Elliott, who let us play flag football pretty much every day, rain or shine. God, I loved flag football. At school no one bothered me, no one picked on me or told me I was worthless. All that happened at home.