Until I Break(22)
Author: M. Leighton

From the bedside table, my phone rings, effectively cutting off her rant. I pick it up and glance at the screen. “That’s Ari.”

With a sigh specifically engineered to let me know how put-upon she feels, Chris relents. “Fine. Go. Go and give all your precious time to your publicist. See if I care.”

“I know you care, Chris. And I love you for it. And maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for me. Don’t give up.”

“Fat chance of that ever happening. I’m as tenacious as a pit bull. You know that.”

“Yes, yes I do know that,” I quip. “I just need time. That’s all. I’m not broken beyond repair.”

That’s more for her benefit than mine. I’m not convinced that I can be fixed. Ever. By anyone.

“None of us are.”

While I hope she’s right, I have my doubts.

I smile. “We have a more pressing issue at the moment, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to pee. Badly. And you’re on my feet. I suggest you get off them before we both get a golden shower.”

“Save that nasty stuff for your books, woman,” she says, screwing up her face and scooting off the bed. “I’m a good girl.”

Chris pushes her nose up in the air, giving me her best impression of a how she sees a good girl. I burst into laughter.

“Yeah, right! You’ve probably been peed on more than a urinal cake.”

Playfully, she swats my arm as she slips her shoes back on. “Brush your teeth while you’re at it. I’m gonna have to go pencil in my eyebrows as it is.”

“Hey, no one told you to come drag me out of bed.”

“I actually came to remind you about the carnival tonight.”

“Ugh!” I moan as I flop back on my pillow. “Why are you such a pain in my butt?”

“I’m your sister. It’s my job. Plus, I enjoy the shit out of it.” Chris is wearing a satisfied smirk as she sashays out of my bedroom.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – Alec

I dreamed last night of what Samantha would look like tied to a bed of black silk, her alabaster skin glowing pale in the low light but for the red globes of her perfect ass. When I woke, I could almost feel the sting of her skin against my palm. I was hard for an hour afterward.

Now I’m wishing we were further along, to the point where she’d welcome a night like that. But first things first. I need to get her to that point.

I ignore the voice of my more…traditional self, the one who once abhorred people like me and fetishes like mine. Actually, he still does. It wasn’t until the accident that I even knew of the other side of sexuality, the one I’ve come to embrace. Almost against my will. Certainly against part of my will.

But it’s the other part, the other half, that loves it. And he’s very hard to control.

CHAPTER NINETEEN – Samantha

The carnival turn out this year is at least twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents. Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their charges and mingling with the other foster parents.

Chris and I are the “success stories” of the night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of child-fostering.

How’s that for screwed up?

I’m milling about, smiling like a politician, awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text. It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it across the screen to read the message.

Are you ready for the next step?

My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.

Inevitable.

As the word goes through my mind, so does a little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and fiction.

Stop trying to convince yourself you should be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you can’t avoid.

I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability. And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book. It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like me. Like us.

I answer.

I’m not sure.

There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure he’ll reply. But then he does.

I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.

Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…

I hope you’re right.

Another pause.

Where are you?

A carnival. Where are you?

On my way to a carnival.

He doesn’t ask for directions. After seeing him schmooze at the fundraiser, I have no doubts he’s well-connected and well-informed. If he doesn’t already know about the carnival, it probably won’t take him long to find out.

To find me.

The problem is: How am I supposed to concentrate in the meantime? And what if he shows up before I have to give my speech?

I think back to the appearance Tuesday, when I first saw Alec. I was completely distracted after I saw him in the crowd. And that was before I actually knew him, before I knew just how Mason-like he really is. I would never have imagined that the similarities would go beyond the physical, the superficial. But they do. They go deep. Very deep, it seems.

Knowing it will likely (hopefully) be a while before he arrives, I walk to the ball toss tent to watch a trio of young boys try and throw their fastest pitch for a prize. It’s obvious the three are brothers. Curly blond hair, bright blue eyes and freckles galore, they are practically identical but for their stair-stepped height. I’d guess they’re each probably two years apart, starting at maybe ten and going through fourteen or fifteen.

To my right is an older couple, proudly looking on. They are, no doubt, the foster parents. And good ones, I’d wager. To take all three boys, probably so as not to separate them, and then care for them, which they so obviously do—it’s what makes the carnival shine. Not the lights or the rides or the sparklers, but the foster parents who up-end their lives to help a child. Or three. A surge of the gratitude that’s never far from my heart rises to the surface.