I touch one of the metal fragments on the floor. I pick the piece up and throw it across the room. The rest of the pieces follow suit. One after another, I sling them against the far wall. They bounce off the drywall and land on the carpet, scattering around the room. And then I am crying. I am sitting on the floor sobbing, and before I know it, the rage takes over and I am spewing words. Everything is spilling out of my mouth. All the humiliating and disgusting things Michael has ever done to me. I am not looking at David, but I can feel his eyes on me. I am churning out a long line of impassioned and enraged words, telling him story after story, painting a twisted picture of me. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want breathe. I just want to spew. I am rabid.
David gathers me into his lap, chest to chest, face to face. I feel relief and nervousness in the wake of my rant. David knows everything now, and I can’t take it back. My legs are wrapped around his waist, and my arms are limp against my sides. His hands are woven together against the small of my back, and he is looking at my face. I expect to see pity in his eyes. I expect to see sympathy. But I don’t. Instead, I see fire. I see the crazy current. As stupid as it sounds, I see the phoenix.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was after midnight when we finally fell asleep, and now David is jostling me, telling me I’d better get moving. Telling me I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get out of bed. I can hear the alarm sounding, but I am in a mist of sleepiness. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to remove myself from David’s arms. I don’t want to see my puffed-up face in the mirror, or the empty box on the table, or the metal pieces scattered across the floor. I just want to lie here.
But David won’t let me. He pulls himself away from me, sits up and climbs out of bed. He walks over to my side and turns me so my legs are hanging off the bed. Then he pulls my arms until I am sitting up.
“Come on, Emma. Let’s go. Get ready, and I’ll take you to work,” he says.
“No. I don’t want to go,” I say as I lie back down.
“You have to,” he says, pulling me back upright.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because if you don’t, then he wins.” Fuck that shit. He’s right. Michael wants me to be wrecked about his little present. And I am. But that doesn’t mean I have to show it.
I stand up and walk to the shower.
I leave the bathroom door open, and a few seconds later, a naked David is standing behind me. Without saying a word, he opens the shampoo bottle and starts washing my hair. I am facing him, and he is watching his hands weave through my hair. Then he tilts my chin up, and the water rinses the bubbles from my hair. David washes my whole body with what I can only describe as kindness. He is careful and slow and tender. I am bewildered. My heart swims with appreciation, and my tired limbs slowly wake with every stroke of the washcloth. His touch is as sensual as ever, but there is no expectation, no innuendo in it. Only care. When he is finished, I offer to do the same for him. But he stops me, telling me I should get out of the shower and get ready for work. And so I do. I get dressed, we eat some breakfast and get into the car.
On the way into town, David mentions that it is Tuesday. His poker night.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to sit in your cubicle with you today,” he says, “but you are coming with me to poker tonight.”
“Really?” I say. “Why?”
“Because I don’t trust him, Emma. And I don’t think you should be alone. Not for now at least.” I am surprised at the resolution in his voice.
“Oh.” It is all I can think to say.
“I’d like to pick you up after work and take you with me. We can grab some dinner on the way,” he says. He pauses for a few seconds, then draws in a big breath before continuing. “But I need you to know that tonight probably isn’t going to be what you expect. I don’t want you to be surprised by that, okay? The whole poker night thing, I mean. It isn’t just a bunch of guys sitting around playing cards, and I need to know that you’ll be cool with whatever is going on. I need to know that whatever happens tonight, you aren’t going to flake out on me.” What the fuck does that mean?
“I’m not sure what to say here, David. I’m not one for flaking out, but depending on what the hell you are talking about, I’m not making any promises.”
“Those fuckers can take things too far sometimes. That’s all I’m saying. And I just want you to be safe. I don’t want you leaving without me or something.”
“Well, since I probably won’t know where we are, or how the hell to get myself home, the chances of me leaving without you are pretty slim.”