Page 101 of Broken Lines

And I’m alone.

My brow furrows as I stir, shifting under what feels like a mountain of blankets heaped over me. Slowly, I open my eyes, but then half-close them as the bright whiteness blinds me.

I shift, sitting up as I open my eyes again. This time, I take in my surroundings, and I blink as I stare out the windows.

Snow. That’s the blinding white light that just woke me up. Outside, the storm from last night has turned to a blizzard of some kind, with flurries whirling and blowing hard against the house.

I shiver, realizing it’s somewhat cold in the house, even though the fireplace is still crackling with what looks like fresh logs. And of course, the million blankets heaped over me.

I tense when I realize I’m naked beneath them. But then, slowly, heat floods into me as it all comes back to me.

Kissing him. Falling into a dark, sultry hole with him that I never wanted to come back out of. His mouth on me, his hands on me…

I shiver. And then, his truths.

And mine.

For a second, embarrassment and shame that I actually let my dark past out—tohimof all people—has me groaning as I sink into the blankets. There’s only three people who actually know about what happened to me those years ago. Judy, I count, feeling the sting of betrayal and anger, but choosing to breath it out. My roommate June, because we gotembarrassinglydrunk one night and spilled dark secrets to each other. She just doesn’t know thewho.

Andhim, of course. The monster.

He can’t hurt you.

Not anymore.

I exhale, hugging myself and choosing to not dwell there in that nightmare from my past. Yes, he’s still out there. He’s not dead or horribly maimed, or in prison. No one, to my knowledge, has tortured him or cut his dick off.

He’s still famous. I still turn to ice if I walk into a record store and see his fucking face on a greatest hits album, or when Ticketmaster decides to send me a robo-email gleefully reminding me that he’s playing in New York.

My lips purse. My teeth grit as I shake my head.

Let it go.

I slowly run through breathing exercises that usually help me distance myself from trauma. And as I do, my thoughts wander to last night, and heat simmers through me. My skin remembers Jackson’s hands on me. My lips remember the taste of him…

I blush fiercely. And of me.

At twenty years old, withzerodating or consensual sexual history to speak of? With my inability to even let a guy touch or kiss me?

I have a fuckingdoctoratein making myself come. I mean, no joke. I’mverygood at knowing what I like, and what does it for me.

Hey, a girl has needs, even if she won’t let someone else attend to those needs.

But, in all my years of…self-exploration, I’ve never once comecloseto the places where Jackson took me last night. Which was somewhere past outer space. All I know is, his tongue, and his fingers, and his filthy words ripped me from my reality and took me someplace fantastical last night.

And I’m not sure if I ever want to return to reality again.

I flush, simmering under the blankets as I bite my lip. But then, my brow furrows as I look around the empty, slightly chilly living room.

Whereishe, actually?

I glance at the clock on the far wall. It’s barely eight in the morning. Which seems like an unlikely time of day for someone like Jackson to be awake. I frown, trying to put together the puzzle. But when it clicks, a little of that euphoria and giddiness that came with thinking about last night dims.

He’s not up and awake at this hour. He’s just…not here. As in, not still sleeping on the couch with me, after I embarrassingly fell asleep on his chest.

The heat on my face cools.

I fell asleep, and he probably immediately went back to his own bed, after extracting himself from clingy-mc-clingy. Aka, me.