R. Griffin - Seamless

Stella stared at her.

“Someone you want to stay with,” Denise nudged. “Forever.”

“I don’t know about all that,” Stella refuted, not ready to allow herself to think about future, forever, whatever. That wasn’t something in her scope of reality right now.

“Stella, the information you share in here is only to let you begin to explore where you are in your life. You’re obviously in love with George. Why can’t you admit that George is someone you want to be with for the long term?”

“Because I don’t have a long term,” she stated matter-of-factly, without thinking.

This was the first time Stella had seen any reaction by Denise. Her eyes went wide for a millisecond and then back to her normal inquisitive expression.

“What do you mean when you say you ‘don’t have a long term’?”

Stella looked out the window for a second. “I mean it like I said it. I can’t live long term anymore. Any time I let myself think that way, even for a fucking second, some insane shit happens. My fiancé dies, I almost die, a car bomb is planted in my car, which was stolen months ago…never mind the fucking media circus. I don’t have the emotional capability to believe in forever.” That felt…freeing to say.

“Well, Stella.” Denise’s face was tight, her features pulled in together. “Let’s hope we can change that, because if you don’t believe in forever, how will you plan your future?”

“If I had any answers, I wouldn’t be here.” Stella felt like they were just going around and around in fucking circles without helping her in any way.

“Well,” Denise said, resigned, “let’s try to do something productive. The first time you were here, you said the reason why you lied to George was due to a bitterness that was eating away at you. Do you still feel bitter?”

“On occasion, but it’s less than before. Before, it was my constant companion. It ate, slept, and ran with me. There was nothing I could do to get rid of it. But I can honestly say that it totally went away for about three months.”

“Why just three months?” Denise asked.

“Because I thought I was free for three glorious months. Then I had the trial and realized I was still trapped, that freedom was simply an illusion that he allowed me to have.”

Denise’s eyebrows shot up. “Trapped how?”

Stella looked at her silenced cell phone and checked the time. “We don’t have time to get into that today.” She smiled and stood up. “I’ll make an appointment for next week.” Stella walked toward the hall.

“Who’s he?” Denise called, not getting up from her chair.

Stella shook her head.

“Stella, you’re a very strong individual and we’ll get you through this. You just have to trust me.”

Stella smiled a sad smile and looked over her shoulder. “I don’t do trust very well either.”

* * *

She was back to driving to work since her face was splashed all over TV and the internet the last few weeks. The Metro was much more convenient, but she couldn’t deal with all the stares. She’d just turned on her audio book for her commute home when Greg called. She struggled to turn off the book before she answered; she was sure he didn’t want to hear about riding crops and blow jobs.

“Hey, Greg.”

“Stella. I have an interview with Diane Sawyer scheduled. Will you be okay with having it at your house?”

“No fucking way.” Stella didn’t want the crazy in their home anymore than it already was.

“Okay, well I figured that’d be the case. ABC said if that didn’t work they’d have it in New York at a hotel. Does that work?”

“George’s house is in the news enough. I don’t want to do it at all.” She sighed. Millie had been on her for months to do an interview. “But… I hear you and I’ll do it.”

“I’ve told them the questions will be limited. It’ll be the best situation. I got it scheduled in a few weeks. Does October 19th work?”

“Okay. Just email me the details.” She looked at the car next to her and stared for a moment too long at a normal-looking guy who was on the phone and smiling into it. Stella wondered if she’d ever be normal, if her calls wouldn’t be to her lawyer scheduling interviews and dealing with FBI investigations, but to George or Millie to see if she should pick up something for dinner or something else monotonous and normal.

“Sure. And Stella…” Greg’s voice was commanding.

“Yes?”

“Be careful. There’s only so much I can do from here.”

“Thanks, Greg. I’ll be as careful as I can.” She frowned and disconnected the call. She was stopped in traffic and before her mind started working overtime, she turned her book back on to let the story of a writer/dominatrix take her away from her real, fucked up life.

Stella walked into Neiman Marcus and made a beeline for the shoe department. Lately, anytime she was having a rough day and her mind was getting away from her, she bought shoes; really expensive shoes. There was something surprisingly soothing about it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but shoes were pretty and made her feel pretty. She relished the hour or so that she felt pretty in her new shoes because she knew she really wasn’t pretty on the inside or out. Stella was growing more comfortable with the scars that were etched on her chest, her torso, and her back, but it wasn’t like they disappeared completely. When she had on her work attire, a suit or a dress, with heels, she felt like an entirely different person than when she looked at herself in the mirror after a shower. The jagged lines of scar tissue reminded her of him, of what he’d done to her, which, in turn, reminded her what she was planning to do to him. The turmoil that sat just underneath the surface was draining and all-encompassing. She was getting proficient at hiding it from everyone, sometimes even herself.

Walking up and down the displays of high heels slowed her heart rate and made her brain stop thinking about what she was going to do about Jamie. It stopped all the questions that constantly ran through her mind. How was she going to protect George and the others that she loved? Should she tell Millie about Jamie? Would she end up in jail right next to him?

A salesman came up to her and smiled a really good fake smile. She’d have to memorize that smile—it even reached his eyes. “Hi. Can I help you with something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for some badass black heels. Nothing plain. I have those.”

The man ran his hand over his goatee and thought for a minute. “You sit and I’ll bring the shoes to you. Size nine? Would you like something to drink?”

“Eight and a half and sure. Bring me a drink.” She laughed. If you were willing to pay $1000 for shoes, you could get wine while you shopped. Who knew?

The man came out with seven shoeboxes piled up past his head. He proficiently set them on the floor without incident; she was impressed. The first pair he pulled out was a platform pair of Louboutin heels. Another salesperson brought her a flute of champagne.

She took a sip and shook her head. “I have these already. I need outside the box, funky shoes no one else would buy.”

“Oh yes, I think I have something you may like.”

He disappeared. Her phone dinged with another tweet. A picture of her popped up with the champagne flute to her mouth, a smile teasing her lips.

#fbibeautydaydrinkingshopping

The salesman walked over. “Ms. Murphy?”

She looked up quickly; she hadn’t given her name. Fucking figures. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to everyone knowing who she was. “Yes?”

He opened the box and showed her the heels inside. They were six inches high, black patent leather with red soles and silver spikes erupting from the tip of the toes. They were fantastic. No one would wear these. They were perfect. She slipped her foot inside the heel. “These are fantastic. I’ll take them.”

She took a picture of her new shoes and tweeted the picture, tagging Millie.

#fbibeautywillcutabitchwithnewshoes

* * *

Stella was slipping her feet into her new heels when she heard the doorbell. She cocked her head in a question, hoping it wasn’t media. Greg had been hard at work making sure that all the media stayed off the property. It didn’t hurt that she had the FBI protection detail at the house. Her shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as she hurried through the den and to the front door, opening it to see George standing there with a huge bouquet of barely pink peonies. Smiling, she pulled him into her by his shirt and kissed him hungrily. He was wearing dark jeans and a bright blue and white checked shirt, his dark hair was in that adorably messy state between short and too long; he was in need of a haircut.

“Wow,” he said after she broke off the kiss. “I could get used to that greeting.”

“What’re you doing out here ringing the doorbell?” She took the flowers and walked to the kitchen to find a vase.

“I’m picking you up for our date.” He followed her and watched her open every cabinet in the kitchen. “I don’t have a vase.”

“You have a fucking picnic basket but you don’t have a vase?” She put her hands on her hips.

“You look hot.” George’s eyes traveled over her see-through long sleeve white shirt, black bra, and skinny jeans. He stopped when he got to her fuck-with-me-and-I’ll-stab-you heels. “Where in the world do you buy shoes like that?”

She held up her foot, examining her new shoes, and laughed. “You like these?”

He nodded. “I’m kinda scared of them, though.”

“I bought them for my interview with Ms. Diane Sawyer in New York. I thought if it was going badly, I’d accidently kick Diane in the shin and then apologize profusely.”

“Good plan.” He laughed. “It’s all set up then?”

“Yes. I asked Millie if she’d go with me. They’re filming on a Saturday so that we can take the train up from DC after work on that Friday.”

“You guys aren’t going alone,” George said.

“Um, yeah. We are,” Stella refuted. “End of discussion.”

“Come on, I have reservations.” George took her hand and changed the subject.

“Where?” she asked, following him.

“Tabard Inn. I told you I’d take you.”

“Do you think I’m dressed okay?” She looked down at her casual attire.

He pulled her to him swiftly before she could run away and change. “You’re gorgeous, and every person in that restaurant will look at you because you are, but,” his dimples made an appearance, “it may also be because you have shivs on your shoes.”

“You like these, huh?”

“I would suggest you wear those later, but I’m afraid you’d hurt me.” George’s hands slid down her back and grabbed her ass.

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” she retorted, separating herself from him and walking toward the door, his hand holding her wrist possessively. She waved at Agent Morris as they climbed onto George’s bike and took off toward DC.

George and Stella walked into the Tabard Inn holding hands. Stella was excited; she’d heard great things about the restaurant and George had bragged about the homemade doughnuts many times. It was also nice to be doing something as normal as a date.

George cleared his throat and squeezed Stella’s hand when the hostess asked for the name. “I reserved Room 51.”

The hostess smiled. “Oh yes, Finnegan. Come with me.”

“George, what did you do?”

They followed the hostess into the restaurant and walked through the entire dining area and into a private room. The Inn was old and all of the decorations were very traditional, all dark colors and heavy draperies. Room 51 was painted red and big enough for 12 people to sit, but had two place settings with candlelight at the far end of the table. A grin spread across her face.

“I got us a private dinner.” George smiled proudly and motioned around the room. “This way we can have a date without people staring at you.”

Stella was impressed. George was beyond considerate and she really appreciated it. She hoped he knew how much. “I love you,” she said as she walked to the table and sat down.

“You should.” He laughed and sat next to her, pulling her hand from her lap under the table and kissing her knuckles reverently, one by one.

They smiled at each other like love struck idiots until the first course was served.