Still Beating

As the sun rises on the seventh day and a full week has passed us by, we are no closer to freedom. We are no closer to finding a way out of this barbarous basement and going home.

Home.

Sometimes I forget what it looks like.

I try to picture my lavender bedroom walls, bay window, and the vintage mirror that my grandmother passed down to me. It’s a quaint little house with only twelve-hundred square feet and two bedrooms, but it’s mine. I worked my ass off for it and laid my roots.

I was in the middle of researching local animal shelters to adopt a dog—it has been on my bucket list for a solid year now, but it never felt like the right time. Last Saturday was spent scrolling through furry faces and cute canine bios as I narrowed down my search to find the perfect companion. I found two contenders, though, all of them called to me with their sad eyes and heartwarming stories.

But Jasmine and Buffy were the two I was going to meet on Sunday. I printed out their photos and secured them to my refrigerator, excited for this big life change.

I got change, all right. Just not the change I ever expected.

And part of me is grateful I don’t have a pet at home waiting for me, wondering where I’ve gone, relying on me for things I cannot give.

I am the pet now.

Dean’s head is back against his pole, but his eyes are on me as I daydream about the two dogs I never got to meet. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I cut him a glance, pulling my legs up until I’m sitting Indian-style across from him. “You don’t have any pennies. Unfair trade.”

He blinks as his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “Name your price, then.”

“You have nothing to give. My thoughts are extremely valuable, you know.”

“I’m sure they are.” Dean’s eyes are as alight as they can be given the week we’ve battled through. He dips his head to the side, pursing his lips together and considering the bargain. “All right, Corabelle. A thought for a thought.”

I raise the stakes. “How about a confession for a confession?”

An eyebrow arches with interest, his smile blooming. “This could be fun,” he winks at me. “And dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, my belly doing a forgotten flippy-thing. “What kind of confessions did you have in mind? ‘I stiffed the pizza delivery guy’ or a full-on priest confessional with ten Hail Marys and the Act of Contrition?”

Dean lets out a gruff chuckle, shifting his weight until his knees are drawn up and shrugging his shoulders. “I would never stiff the pizza guy. Unforgivable.” He ponders my question as he studies me, his head still cocked. “But definitely the second one. Let’s go all Last Rites on each other.”

I stare back at him, wracking my brain for something that is even remotely Last Rites worthy. To be honest, I’m not all that interesting. I pay my taxes, I drive the speed limit, I don’t owe anybody any money. I’ve never cheated or stolen. And I always put the toilet paper roll in the ‘over’ position. “Fine. But I’m kind of boring, so you’ll have to go first. Maybe you’ll inspire something sordid and obscene buried deep in my subconscious.”

“Okay.” Dean’s expression turns more serious, the corners of his eyes creasing as he contemplates his confession.

His stubble has grown into scruff over the past week. The dark hair lines his chin and jaw, giving him a rougher appearance. Mandy didn’t like the scruffy look when he’d occasionally let a modest beard grow out. She said it made him look like a mountain man. I never paid much attention at the time, but now that his face is the only thing I have to look at, I have to say I disagree with my sister. It’s masculine. Rugged.

Maybe a little sexy if the face wasn’t attached to Dean Asher.

A few more minutes tick by and the suspense is killing me. He’s watching me like he’s questioning his truth bomb—possibly regretting the whole thing. “Any day now, Dean.”

A sigh escapes him. “All right. Fine.” His eyes look even bluer as they hold mine. “I had a thing for you first.”

What?

I choke on nothing. I start coughing and sputtering, and I have to force my eyes away from him. “What are you talking about?”

Dean bites his lip with another indifferent shrug. “Before I started dating Mandy. It was freshman year and you walked into Mr. Adilman’s class wearing that little denim skirt and purple blazer. Your hair was all long and gold and had some kind of flower clip in it. I thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.”

My heart is doing the Macarena, and my jaw drops like a comical cartoon. I think I’m speechless, which is new for me, but words aren’t coming out and even my breathing has come to a screeching halt. Dean looks a little amused as he watches me from a few feet away, his eyes dancing over me while he awaits my response.

I don’t respond, though. I’m definitely speechless.

“Your turn,” Dean finally says, his voice soft and lilting.

I slow blink my thoughts into actual words, then shake my head. “It’s still your turn. It’s one-hundred percent still your turn. What are you even talking about? Was your turkey sandwich laced with all the drugs?”

Dean laughs, sliding his socks across the floor and stretching out his long legs. “I thought I was taking that one to the grave,” he admits with a grin. “But I couldn’t let you go on thinking I hated you. That’s so far from the truth.”

“You sure could have fooled me. You could have fooled everyone. Why were you such a jerk to me?”

His grin slips. “I told you. I was a kid, and that’s what dumb boys do when they like a girl. They pick on them.”

“I’ll never understand that.”

“Yeah, it’s stupid,” he says. “Then we both grew up, and giving each other hell was just a part of who we were. There was no going back.” Dean is staring at me, almost knowingly. “And you can deny it all you want, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

I set my jaw, my emotions spiraling into a frenzy. I’m not sure what to make of Dean’s confession. I can’t process it. It goes against everything I thought we were.

I gulp back more questions and choose to reroute the subject. Dean’s bomb did happen to trigger something somewhat juicy. “I lost my virginity to Mr. Adilman.”

He gapes at me. “What the fuck?”

I crinkle my nose, not entirely proud of that fact. “I was nineteen. We ran into each other at a bar—Mandy and I had just gotten fake I.D.’s. He gave me a ride home, one thing led to another, and…” I feel my cheeks flush at the memory I’ve kept to myself for ten years. “I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

Dean fidgets with his cuffs as he blows out a breath. “Shit, Cora. You gave it up to your high school English teacher? Mandy told me Brandon was your first.”

I feel my eye twitch at the mention of Brandon—my first long-term relationship and a huge source of contention between me and the man I’m staring at. “I’ve never told anyone about it. Not even Mandy.” My eyes narrow, irritation with my sister flaring to the surface. “I can’t believe she tells you about my sexcapades. Ew.”

“She tells me everything.”

I huff at him. “Your turn.”

Dean parts his lips, about to speak, but he hesitates. His eyes glass over as a mask of uncertainty sweeps across his face. I can see him swallow, and I wonder what else he can possibly throw at me.

“Uh… it’s about Brandon.”

My body freezes up. “What about Brandon?”

Dean’s ankles are swinging side to side like he’s nervous. He catches my gaze and replies, “He was cheating on you, Corabelle.”

I stare blankly at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

“He was cheating on you. I caught him outside The Oar with his tongue down some floozy’s throat. I roughed him up a little and told him to break it off with you or I would break his face.”

I continue to stare.

“I knew it would destroy you, so I told him to blame it on me. You already hated me. It was better than letting you hate yourself, or having you think you weren’t good enough for that douchebag.”

Still staring.

Dean releases a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment and then braving my stare once more. “Say something, Cora.”

I open my mouth to reply, but only a strained squeak emerges. I’m overwhelmed by the truths spilling out of Dean’s mouth. I don’t know whether to be livid that I’ve gone three years still pining over a disloyal man, thinking Dean sabotaged my relationship just to hurt me, or touched by the revelation that Dean was trying to protect me in his own screwed up way.

I’m about to tell him that I’ve gone fifteen years thinking I wasn’t good enough for him—for his friendship. For his respect. For his decency. But I don’t get the words out in time because Earl’s boots are making their way down the creaky basement steps, and I’m about to get raped for the seventh time in a row. Dean and I turn to the sadistic fucker who is advancing on us with a devilish leer.

“I have some new tricks up my sleeve for my pets today,” Earl tells us, slapping his hands together and rubbing his palms.

Oh, God. What could he possibly have in store for us? Torture? Sodomy?

I feel queasy.

I expect him to saunter over to me like he usually does every morning before work, but instead, he approaches Dean. I stand to my feet, anxiety bubbling in my belly.

Earl snarls at Dean, “Are you ready to have some fun, my dirty dog?”

I start rattling my chains around, sickened by the very thought. “No! Leave him alone.”

Dean remains sitting with a straight face. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking.” Earl throws his hands up, shaking his round head back and forth with a broken laugh. Then he pulls out his pistol and places the barrel at Dean’s forehead. “I’m no homo. Now, stand, pet.”

Dean rises. We share a perplexed look, both confused. Both frazzled.

“I’m going to unchain you now,” Earl says to Dean, his gun still pressed hard against Dean’s head. “One wrong move and I’ll blow you to pieces. I’ll find a new doggie for my kitten. Ya hear me?”

Dean nods.

“Good.” Earl pulls a key out of his pocket and uncuffs Dean. I watch as the shackles fall to the floor and Dean rubs his swollen wrists as he awaits more orders.

Earl is quiet for a few moments, taking three steps back so Dean can’t make any sudden moves. There is a giddy smile pulling at his fat, red cheeks, and the look on his face makes my anxiety swell and churn. Whatever he has planned cannot be good.

With one satisfied, drawn-out breath, Earl voices his intentions: “Fuck her.”

The air leaves my lungs.

The room starts to spin.

I look over at Dean, who is shaken and visibly paling before my eyes.

“What?” Dean questions, his voice hardly more than a taut whisper.

Earl chuckles, his beady eyes filled with wickedness. “Did I stutter?” He points the gun at me, then aims it back to Dean. “Fuck. Her.”

Dean is shaking his head in disbelief—in abject horror. “No.”

“No?” Earl repeats.

“No.”

“Then you die. Three, two, on—”

“No!” I shriek. “No, no, please. Just do it, Dean.” My chest is heaving, weighed down by impossibility.

This can’t be happening. This can’t fucking be happening.

Dean’s eyes are wide and conflicted as he looks over to me, his brows pulled together, the veins in his temples ticking with quiet fury. “I won’t do that to you. I’d rather die,” he says to me. And he means it. I swear to God he means it.

Earl grabs Dean by the front of his t-shirt and starts dragging him over to me, the gun smashed against his ribcage. “Kitten wants it. She’s already purring for you.”

Dean stumbles as he’s shoved towards me, catching himself before our faces collide together. Our eyes unite in a powerful clutch as the palpability of this moment, the terrifying truth, eats right through our withered bones. I can feel Dean’s warmth radiating into me as his hands reach out to touch me for the very first time.

He places his palms against my shoulders, squeezing gently. “I can’t, Cora. Let him kill me. Please.”

“Stop it.” Tears brim my weary eyes, and I lean into him on instinct, craving more warmth. More contact. “I’m not letting you die. Just get it over with.”

Better you than him.

I can’t quite get the words out, though.

Dean lowers his hands, his fingers digging into my upper arms. He drops his head as he lets out a hard, pained breath. “Fuck…”

“Let’s go, Romeo. Earl has things to do today. You’ve got one more minute before I get impatient and trigger-happy.”

We both glance over at Earl, then back to each other. The eye contact proves too much for me, so I twist my head to the right as tears spill down my soiled cheekbones.

“Cora.” Dean’s tone is urgent. Quiet, but laced with a thick heaviness. He takes my chin between his rough fingers and forces my gaze on his. “Cora, look at me.”

God. The tears fall faster. My lips part, and he glances down at my mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Then he leans in.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

He’s going to kiss me.

I turn my head to the side again, dodging his kiss. “No,” I whisper in a cracked voice, my hair sticking to the tearstains. “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

Dean sucks in a jagged breath, halting his forward movement. There is a slight nod of his head, telling me he understands, and then he reaches for one of my chained wrists. A frown settles between my eyes as confusion sets in. He massages his thumb along my pulse point, his gaze still pinned on me.

“Do you feel that?”

I swallow. The lump in my throat is dry and brittle, and it hurts on the way down. “Yes,” I squeak out. The gesture is somewhat soothing, despite the circumstances.

Dean continues the circular motion, his calloused thumb grazing my wrist, almost lovingly. “Focus on that. Close your eyes and zone out. The only thing I want you to feel is my thumb massaging your wrist.”

I want to cry harder. I want to cry because I’m scared and exhausted and sore and done. I want to cry because I can’t believe this is happening. I want to cry because my sister’s fiancé, a man I loathed one week ago, is about to fuck me while a freakshow jerks off from a few feet away.

I want to cry because it’s awful, so awful, but Dean is still trying to make this better for me.

I dip my chin and squeeze my eyes shut, nodding my consent. I hear Dean’s sigh, and it rumbles through me like a white wave. It’s followed by the sound of his belt buckle unlatching and his pants dropping to the cold cement.

A familiar, snarling voice penetrates the moment. “Yeah, that’s it. Get it nice and hard for her.”

My eyelids squeeze tighter as I try to filter out everything but the feel of Dean’s thumb against the sensitive underside of my wrist. His motions are soft and fluid. Constant. Whatever he is doing with his other hand—and God, I don’t want to know—is not affecting his attention to my wrist. I inhale a rickety breath, long and slow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Earl barks from across the basement. “She’s a hot piece of ass. Fuck her, already.”

I jolt at the shrill sound of his voice, and my eyes flutter open. I lift them to Dean’s face. He’s staring at me with a hollow expression. “It’s okay. Just do it,” I urge him, wanting to get this over with. Wanting to curl up into a ball of shame and cry myself to sleep.

Forever.

Dean’s jaw ticks and his nostrils flare. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Earl interrupts us again. “What’s the damn matter with you? You play for the other team?”

Dean whips his head to the right and shoots back, “I’m not a disgusting psychopath who gets off on raping women. It just doesn’t do it for me.”

And then there’s a barrel of a gun jabbing Dean’s temple, and I let out a scream.

“That’s not going to help,” Dean seethes, sweat pooling along his dark hairline. He’s trying to play it cool, but I can see the fear in his eyes. I can smell it on his skin.

“You have three seconds to figure out what’s going to help, or this bitch is gonna be wearing your brains until I get bored with her and put her bony ass in the ground.”

A strangled sob escapes me and I rattle my chains, noting that Dean still has not let go of my wrist. I’m not sure what else to say, so I blurt, “Kiss me.”

He glances at me with his ice blue eyes, troubled and bloodshot.

“Kiss me, Dean,” I repeat. “Please.”

It’s evident our situation is not getting him “in the mood” quick enough for Earl, so maybe some forced intimacy will help. I shift my gaze to the pistol as it slowly retreats from Dean’s head. I can’t help the tiny sigh of relief that escapes me.

Dean’s mouth parts ever so slightly, his eyes drifting to my bruised lips. He looks back up to me, as if to confirm: Are you sure?

I nod quickly, gulping down a fear that tastes tangible. “I want you to.”

When he leans in, I inhale sharply, my eyes closing in anticipation. I release a modest gasp when our lips make contact and Dean does the same. I told him not to pretend this is something it’s not, but maybe we have to pretend. Maybe it’s the only way to get through his. I feel his tongue poke through, seeking entry, and I oblige. My body bows forward to meet him further, and I open my mouth wider, encouraging him. “Close your eyes and zone out,” I breathe against his warmth, repeating his own request to me. “Focus on kissing me.”

My words seem to stimulate him in some way, and Dean raises his right hand to cup my face as the other continues its lazy designs against my wrist. We each have a crux. A survival tactic. His touch, my kiss. A kiss that deepens and deepens, taking us over, disguising this moment for what it really is. My tongue is his veil—his black cloak.

But it’s also his fuel. Before I know it, his hand has trailed down my cheek, gliding along my waist, my hip, my thigh, until he’s gently parting my legs. I feel the tip of him settle at my entrance and everything becomes too real. I make a sound I can’t even describe—a mewl, maybe. Ripped straight from the torrent of disbelief spiraling through my core.

“I’m so sorry.” He pulls back from my mouth, his head falling against my shoulder as he pushes inside me. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Around, around, and around.

Left, then right. Slow and careful and kind.

Up and down.

He’s tracing my vein.

Like art.

I can pretend this is something beautiful.

Dean is kissing me again, his cock filling me, pulsing in and out with hurried thrusts. He feels big and thick, unlike vile Earl who was pumping into me only yesterday.

Around, around, and around.

Our tongues are battling, desperate to erase everything that’s happening—everything that’s happened. Just everything. Dean’s right hand is holding up my leg and perching it over his hip. His fingers are digging into the fleshy side of my thigh, squeezing lightly as he moves in and out of me. In and out. In and out.

Around, around, and around.

I can hear the putrid monster beside us breathing heavily, groaning in pleasure at the display. At the fucking entertainment we’re providing.

Around, around, and around.

I need to focus. I need to block out Earl and this basement and the smell of imminent death in the air.

Dean.

There is only Dean.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s inside me, spearing me deep, forcing tiny whimpers from the back of my throat. He’s here. He’s alive. We’re both alive.

We’re in this together.

He’s still kissing me, his tongue getting clumsier as his thrusts quicken and his body tenses. He’s going to come.

Around, around, and around.

I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see his face in this moment—I don’t want to witness his pleasure. And it’s not because I’m angry or blameful. I’m envious. I’m envious he’s able to find a pocket of happiness, of joy, of authentic bliss, in the midst of our shared nightmare. We’re in this together, yes, but for a moment—for a few blinding, potent seconds—we will be worlds apart.

Dean’s hand slides up my thigh and grips my bare ass, his opposite hand still leaving whispers and apologies along my wrist.

Around, around, and around.

And then he peaks, trying to mask his groan of pleasure as he buries his face into the curve of my neck. Dean clings to me through the aftershocks, holding me like a cherished lover. But I’m not. I am merely a pawn in Earl’s game. We are both pawns.

Dean inhales a deep sigh, almost choking on the weight of the breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He repeats it over and over, devastation flooding him. Remorse has replaced the euphoria, and my own envy has faded. I can feel his hot tears fall against my collarbone.

Earl reminds us of where we are and why we’re here—as if we could possibly forget. “That was fucking beautiful. I came so hard I saw stars,” he growls, his husky laugh making me want to vomit.

Dean is still inside me, softening, yet incapable of leaving me just yet. Maybe he’s still pretending.

I don’t blame him.

“Time’s up, lover boy,” Earl snaps.

The repugnant scent of Earl’s body odor invades me, and I finally open my eyes to see him approaching us with his weapon. Dean slips out of me, but his left hand is still on my wrist, and his right has glided from my ass and landed on my hip. He’s still holding me, soaking me up for as long as he can. I feel him lift his head from my shoulder, but I twist my body to the side, unable to look him in the eyes. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“This isn’t a romantic morning after, you dumb fuck. Get the fuck over to your corner before I blow you away.”

Earl’s voice sears me, and I’m left empty and hollow. But nothing leaves a void more than Dean releasing my wrist and stepping away from me. His touch lingers on my skin, and I can still feel him tracing my artery, leaving more of himself behind than he’ll ever know. My wrist tingles and hums in the wake of his absence.

When I finally brave a look in Dean’s direction, his pants are newly secured around his waist and Earl is fastening his chains.

We have returned to our former positions.

But as sticky warmth drips down my thighs and Dean’s tears mingle with the sweat on my skin, I know we are not the same.

We will never be the same again.