Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

The comfort of her store wrapped around her as she entered. Since Maribelle was handling the customers, Linda picked up a wide basket and headed for the display window. Florida winter. What would look appropriately seasonal?

“Linda? Hey, Linda!” The man who walked in wore dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt with garish red and purple stripes. His brown hair needed a trim.

“Hi, Dwayne.” Before she met Lee, they’d dated a few times until their one time in bed had shown her that they didn’t suit. He made love as badly as he reported the news.

“You haven’t returned my phone calls.” He halted a step too close.

She retreated a pace. “I’ve been busy. How are you?”

“I watched your testimony about being a sex slave.”

Her mind blanked. Sex slave. She had never, ever called herself that.

“I want an interview. You tell me what it was like, what they did to you, and I’ll make you famous.”

Startled at his insinuating tone and unwholesome interest, she couldn’t speak. Did he really think she’d give him a Penthouse-worthy report of the horrors she’d suffered? “I don’t do interviews.”

“How about the other slave—the blonde college kid? Were you close with Holly?”

The name was a hammer blow to her heart. Her inability to protect the girl had been far more devastating than her powerlessness to protect herself. Holly had been so terrified, had pleaded with the Overseer to let her go home. She’d been sold and died under the lash instead.

Linda blinked hard. “I’m busy. Please leave.” As customers turned to look, she set her face into an expressionless mask.

Dwayne swept his gaze down her body. His voice dropped. “I gave it to you good, so why’d you dump me? Cuz you’d wanna be tied up when you’re fucked? Did you have a better time with them than with me?”

Her stomach twisted. “Get out of my store!”

“Did you—”

Swallowing against the nausea, she yanked her cell phone out, punched two numbers, and turned it so he could see the display. Nine. One.

He made an ugly sound and walked away, turning in the door to snarl, “Welcome back, slave.”

You bastard. Her skin had turned cold and clammy, and as she filled the basket with the contents of the display window, her chest grew tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. Abandoning the pretense, she hurried toward the back of the store. As she passed, the two gray-haired customers looked at her as if they smelled week-old garbage.

At the counter, Maribelle was oblivious as she bantered with two children.

The back room was cool. Dark. It didn’t help. Oh God, oh God, oh God. The tears started. Then her stomach heaved, and she ran for the bathroom.

Crying. Shaking. Throwing up.

Finally she rested her face against the wall. Get up, Linda. Her body wouldn’t move. She watched a tiny spider in the corner. Working so hard on its web. The cleaning lady would probably destroy all its work.

That made her cry again.

Sunday finally arrived. Linda had given herself the whole day off to enjoy. A day for bare feet, ripped jeans, and a Queen Latifah T-shirt. She hadn’t been ready to face church, so she and the children had rescheduled their traditional after-church dinner for the evening. In the meantime, she planned to ignore the outside world and just…settle.

As she finished putting her lunch dishes into the dishwasher, she realized she was singing along with an old Carpenters’ song on the radio, “I Need To Be in Love.” She snorted. Wouldn’t that just be a disaster, considering everything that had happened to her? Added to her past, she also had her strange desires…

Her jaw clenched. That horrible Dwayne. At least Lee had been polite, although the memory was still uncomfortable. Last fall after a couple of drinks, they’d gone to bed, and she’d asked for…more…trying to get him to bite, to spank. He’d been appalled.

Her mouth turned down. The mortification she’d felt with him had been the spur that sent her to a BDSM club. Like beads on a necklace, each event had led to the next and the next, until here she was. Postkidnapped. Kind of a mess. Trying to be normal.

She huffed a laugh, remembering the sting of Sam’s hand hitting her bottom. Not exactly normal. Well, at least she was alive to whine about all her weird problems. And she was home, at last.

Sunlight streamed in through the big kitchen window, setting dust motes to dancing. Spirits lifting again, she sang the last line of the song into a pretend mic and finished with a quick spin before dropping the spatula into the rack. Yesterday at work had gone well. Her nightmares had decreased. She’d had a big bacon, tomato, and lettuce sandwich for lunch. Yummy. Slavery had taught her how important the tiny things in life were. A smile instead of a frown. Comfort foods rather than slop. Kind words. A warm hug could be more satisfying than the most intense orgasm—not that she’d gotten off recently.

Not since the night of the auction with Sam. A flush heated her cheeks. Damn the man.

Then again, maybe she should thank him. If it hadn’t been for that night, she’d think nothing would ever arouse her again.

She shook her head. Somehow he’d simply overwhelmed her until all she’d been able to see or hear was him. His voice. His touch. The pain. And he’d driven her right to where he wanted her. Then humiliated her by making her orgasm. Her stomach clenched as she remembered the sleazy buyers leering at her. The slave next to her had stared, her face turning hard with a “how could you?” expression.

And Sam—she hadn’t been able to read him at all. She sighed. She still couldn’t. Considering the way she’d reacted to him at the Shadowlands, he hadn’t lost his touch.

She wished she could say she responded sexually to any Dom, but that wouldn’t be true. Sam had said they had chemistry between them. Then again, maybe it was just his lean, muscular body, sharp blue eyes, and aura of power that sparked her synapses into overdrive.

Or the way he talked… She put her hand over the flutter in her stomach. The man should have a license to kill for that voice. So deep and rough, like a gravel truck churning at the bottom of a chasm, with a flintlike edge that indicated he didn’t take crap from anyone, especially a submissive.

She snorted. She’d normally have a fit if some guy called her “girl,” but when Sam said it, every molecule in her body turned liquid. Damn him.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she tried to consider what her next task should be. Having her thoughts fall into a Sam rut couldn’t be permitted. She couldn’t afford anything…warped…in her life. In her children’s lives.

Brenna and Charles had told her about the horrible time they’d suffered after she’d been kidnapped. How they’d panicked when no one could find her. They’d been terrified for her. And then reporters had hounded them, playing on their fears, coming up with all the worst scenarios.

How much worse would it be if the newspeople—or her children—learned she’d gone to a kink club?

But everything was returning to normal. The trials for the slavers were almost over. Her coworkers would forget her past. Her children could relax. She’d never, ever do anything to cause a sensation again.

She’d been Miss Boring and Respectable all her life, and being different had really not gone well.

After tossing the soiled towel in the laundry basket, she walked out the front door into the fresh air. She did that a lot—just to prove she could go outside when she wanted to. Typical ex-prisoner behavior.

In her yard, she inhaled slowly. Nothing smelled as good as the breeze off the ocean. The sky was a deep blue with puffy clouds white enough for a bleach commercial. Spring was coming, but this was the prettiest time of the year. The St. Augustine grass was crisp and bright. In a garish flash of color, a flock of feral parakeets settled onto the next-door lawn. She grinned at them.

The counselor had said her emotions would go up and down, but duh—that wasn’t exactly news to anyone over twenty. One moment, a person celebrates a pregnancy, and the next, a father dies. A windfall of cash might be followed by a broken arm. Learn to stand up. Learn to fall down. Life’s lessons didn’t stop; they continued to the day of death.

And I’m alive. That was the important thing. Alive and free and… She stared at her house. To the right of the door, black words had been spray-painted over the pale blue wall: BURN IN HELL WHORE OF SATAN.

No. No no no. Her stomach roiled. Hand over her mouth, she ran for the house.

* * *

Almost two hours later, she had sung every war song she knew as she scrubbed off the graffiti. Once finished, she frowned at the areas of lighter blue. Why in the world would someone do something like that? Whore of Satan. Excuse me?

Now that the words were gone, she could almost see the humor. It sounded like what her father—may he rest in peace—would roar during his pulpit-thumping sermons. “And if you do not repent of your evil ways, then you will—”

He’d considered the road to salvation to be extremely narrow. A good person needed faith, to do charitable works, to wear modest clothing, use respectful language, and observe proper behavior. Her sister, Wendy, had been cynical enough to ignore their parents’ lectures, but Linda had never stopped trying to please them.

Her husband had been much like her father, but despite his conservative nature, at least Frederick had possessed a sense of humor.

A car door thudded, and as Linda turned, she heard, “Mom.”

Her daughter was early. She plastered on a smile and dropped the brush behind the bushes. Thank goodness she’d finished eradicating the words from the wall. “Brenna!”

In a denim skirt and white tank top, Brenna ran across the lawn to give Linda a long hug. “Oh, Mom, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, honey.” Needing to stay strong for her baby, Linda blinked away tears and curved an arm around the girl. “Let’s go have some tea. I made cookies for you and Charles.”

Brenna grimaced. “Mo-om. As if I’m not fat enough.”

“You certainly are not. You’re lovely.”

“As if.” Hands waving in the air, Brenna led the way to the kitchen. “My ass is too big, my tits are like watermelons, and—”

Linda shook her head. Although an inch shorter than Linda’s five feet seven, Brenna was at least thirty pounds lighter and nowhere near Linda’s full figure. But over the years, Linda had learned to like having a curvy body. Brenna hadn’t yet. “Sweetie, you have a beautiful figure, but you’re never going to be tall and slender. It’s not in our genes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Shoving her light brown hair behind her ears, she scowled. “Why couldn’t I have inherited Dad’s tall and skinny genes like Charles did?”

“Sorry. I didn’t have a choice in that one.” Linda spoke lightly, ignoring the feeling of rejection. “Have you seen Charles lately?”

“Not since we came over to make sure the house was okay.”

“I appreciated you doing that.”

Brenna shrugged away her mother’s thanks. “You look good. Tan and like you’ve been living the high life at Aunt Wendy’s.”

Was that a hint of accusation in her words? Guilt tensed the muscles in Linda’s chest. “I spent a lot of time in Wendy’s garden.” Yanking out the stubborn quack grass ferociously as if to kill the monsters that’d destroyed her life. Crying when the scent of blooming roses reminded her of her mother. Shaking and vomiting. The oddest things had affected her, like when her shovel had cut a worm in half. She’d gone into hysterics for half the day. “But it wasn’t the high life.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Tears welled in her daughter’s eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back, but sometimes I just… I don’t know why I said that.”

“Oh, baby.” Linda hugged her girl, trying to work past the hurt. Brenna wasn’t cruel. “Do you remember when you ran away because I wouldn’t let you go to a sleepover? You took your wagon with all your dolls in it.”

Brenna choked on a laugh. “When I was in kindergarten?”

“Yes. For hours, we searched for you. You turned up at Myrtle’s, playing with her grandchildren. We were so relieved. We hugged you and kissed you. But then—”

Brenna pulled away. “Daddy yelled at me. So did you. You guys never yelled, but…”