The secrets we hide, p.17
The Secrets We Hide, page 17
I stand to my full height and cross my arms over my chest. "Our meeting doesn't start for another thirty minutes."
"It starts when I say it starts." He strides back towards me.
As he nears closer to me, his scent wafts through the air. That of cheap cologne, musk and… whiskey. Someone could perhaps miss that grainy fragrance if it didn't smell so sour, like it's coming from his pores and radiating off his breath. As he steps closer, I see his bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks.
The flashback of his behavior at the Christmas party hits me immediately. I drop my hands to my sides and fist my fingers into my palms. My defiance transforms into worry. I find myself scanning the room in a fight or flight response.
I stand behind the protection of my desk as he nears. He motions to the top of my desk. "Come here." His tone is understated, but insistent.
"I'd rather we reschedule this meeting," I return.
"I said fucking sit!"
My neck bounces back like his words physically hit me in the face. I sneak a glance around the room again, ignoring my flight response in order to just get through this conversation. I walk around to the front of my desk and give in to his demand, but I stand to retain some sort of power in this moment. Of course, he's having none of that and places his palm against my breastbone, pushing me back until my ass plops down on top of my desk.
The disgust and confusion are written all over my face, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't give a shit. He keeps his gaze down at his palm, still placed between my breasts, and starts tracing the lines of my top. Silence engulfs us for what feels like minutes as he crooks his finger under the fabric and pulls, exposing the lacy rim of my bra.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I yell, smacking his hand away.
That does nothing to deter him. His hand simply boomerangs back around and lands firmly against my throat. He steps forward, trapping me between his body and my desk, as his fingertips tighten against the sensitive flesh under my jawbone.
What the fuck is happening? My heart is beating out of my chest, and I'm completely immobilized by shock. I grip the arm that's choking me, but it's as if it's cemented in place.
"Matt..." I whisper, trying to plea with him.
"He's good enough for this pussy, is he? Willing to cheat on your husband with him, but not with me? I'll fucking give you a cock you'll never forget." He takes his free hand and places it between my legs, trying to pry them open and pull my dress up at the same time.
Using all my strength, I pull away, crossing my arm under his, then pressing my shoulder and elbow towards him to loosen his chokehold. In an effort to protect myself, I pull my knees up and kick my feet forward, landing a blow between his legs. It wasn't hard, but enough to get him to step back and crouch.
I place my palms at the base of my neck, trying to catch my breath, trying to inch away from him. "Why are you doing this?" I'm able to ask between breaths.
His eyes are still dark; his entire demeanor is like nothing I've seen from him before. I'm even more terrified by the look on his face now than when he was choking me. I need to scream for Cruz, but I'm worried what Matt would do to him if he came in here. At least Cruz and I could take him on together, then run out of here. Jesus. How is this happening?
As I open my mouth to scream for Cruz, he lifts up his phone with the screen facing me. My heart drops as I see the picture come into full view.
Me and Christian, on his couch a mere hour ago. Christian's hand haphazardly sheathed over my mouth as he pulls my hair and fucks me from behind.
"Oh my God..." I breathe out. "How..."
"You're a fucking slut," he interrupts.
"A FUCKING SLUUTT!" His voice bellows through my office. Spit and saliva mist over my face and I flinch.
I'm paralyzed.
How did he get that picture?
Does he have more?
I don't understand all the thoughts that are rapidly flashing through my mind.
My breathing is labored, not because of his recent grip on my throat, but because the walls of the room are closing in. The air in the room feels thick and heavy, and I can hardly catch my breath.
Matt stands to his full height, regaining his composure as he pulls his phone back towards him, swiping right dramatically over the screen.
"Wow, you must really like his dick or you've just got a great porn face and fake that shit really well. Either way, these speak for themselves."
"Don't..." I lunge forward, trying to stop him from continuing to browse through pictures of me.
Pulling the phone back out of my reach, he reaches his other hand out, locking it around my arm tightly, holding me back.
"You get to go home and give your dirty cunt to your husband. I'll get to go home and jerk myself off to pictures of you getting railed by Christian fucking Ford." His tone is conniving and condescending. The same way a parent would scold their child in a, I told you so way, but the crooked smile on his face is dark and twisted, saying more than his words do.
Giving my arm another hard squeeze, before he releases it, he pushes me back to the front of my desk. "Sit the fuck down."
I obey because I'm lost. Devastated. Ashamed. And I'm so goddamn confused.
How did this happen? How could this happen?
Rubbing my hand over the arm that he definitely bruised, I lean back on my desk with my head down and shoulder slouching forward. It's the total opposite of Matt's composure. Standing tall like a king in the middle of my office.
I know this wasn't Christian. He wouldn't risk the exposure. Christian is a single man, but the last thing he would want is pictures of him floating around fucking a married woman. Fuck! What the hell was I thinking doing that in his office? We were so exposed. Except it was in his office–his private fucking office.
"How did you get those, Matt? How?" I grit through my teeth.
I once heard that if you ever feel threatened and you know the name of your attacker, you should use their name and look them in the eye. It makes them question their motive when you remind them you know who they are.
"Do you really think that's the most important question, Elena?" He exaggerates my name like a joke.
He steps forward again, this time slowly, placing the tip of his finger at my temple. He traces an invisible line down the side of my face as his eyes bounce over me. Tears begin to pool at the bottom of my eyelids. Tears of worry, the unknown, and flat-out fear.
I turn my head away from his touch, but he follows, leaning closer into me as his lips graze my ear.
"The question is, sweet Elena, what am I going to do with these pictures? There are so many options I have, you know. Show them to our boss, show them to your husband, release them to the media. All have… repercussions." He takes a hold of my chin, gripping my cheeks as he pulls my face back to his. "I'll get my promotion with or without these, so holding on to them is just a nice little perk for me. You'll be my little puppet. And after I get what I want, maybe you can have these back."
He leans deeper into me, and I feel his erection pressing against my hip.
I squeeze my eyes shut as a tear escapes, falling down my cheek. I feel sick to my stomach.
"You are blackmailing me," I manage to mutter as he releases his hold on my face.
"Call it whatever you want. I'd like to say I'm just using my resources." He moves his hand down the front of my dress, popping the top two buttons, exposing the trim of my bra line, then grazes his fingertip over the peak of my breast.
A mix of a huff and grunt fall from my lips out of disgust, which only eggs him on more. He swiftly moves his hand to the back of my neck, taking a handful of my hair, pulling it back as a show of power.
"Touch yourself," he whispers in my ear.
What the hell.
"Fuck you," I spit back.
"I said fucking touch yourself!" whisper yelling into my ear. He yanks his grip on my hair down my spine so my face is parallel with the ceiling, placing the other hand back on my throat.
I've never felt so powerless.
So exposed. So vulnerable.
I want to cry and scream and thrash around like a fish out of water, which is exactly how I feel. Completely absolved of any oxygen.
I reach down the front of my thigh, pulling the fabric of my dress up with my fingers. As I reach the hem, I place my hand underneath and trail up towards the apex of my thighs, allowing the material to fall over my forearm. I circle my wrist, but I don't touch myself, knowing he can't see what I'm doing underneath the cloth that hides my body.
He crooks his neck back to get a better view of my lower half. "That's it, you fucking whore. How does that feel?"
He's pulling harder on my hair and grips my neck viciously.
"You're hurting me." The hold on my hair is so tight I'm barely able to move my mouth enough to mutter the words clearly.
He releases the hold on my throat, sweeping his hand down my sternum and pulls one side of my dress down, taking the cup of my bra with it, baring my breast. He slaps the exposed flesh, and the sting makes me whimper in pain. I squeeze my eyes tighter, shedding another tear.
If I don't open my eyes or see anything, it won't be real. I keep my eyes glued shut. I have to.
"Keep going, slut." As he steps back, I feel the distance between us. The relief is overwhelming, freeing. He releases my hair, but my neck stays crooked back. I can't seem to gather the courage to do anything but just keep my eyes closed and shut everything off.
I pretend to roll my wrist and touch myself while cursing myself for getting into this position. I hate myself. I hate myself so much.
"Open your eyes, Elena." I can't. I fucking can't.
"Fucking look at me!" he clamors.
Using some invisible force within myself, I crane my neck forward, pulling my chin all the way down to the front of my neck. I flicker my lashes, letting in a little light, then open my eyes fully to see him standing a couple feet away, one hand rubbing himself over his pants and the other holding his phone, aimed straight at me.
"What the fuck!" Pulling my hand out from my dress and covering my arms over my chest.
A smile turns up that covers his entire face. The Joker of all smiles.
"Oh, puppet. A little too late for shy. Don't you think?"
22
JAKE
The week was absolute mayhem, and my development team has been working nonstop to find the bug that's currently making my life a living hell. In the past, it's taken a few hours to locate a bug and fix it, or at least find a workaround for it. It's been two days, and there are thousands of active users that are completely blocked from logging in. If we don't get this fixed today before we go into the weekend, the risk of losing these people as users permanently, triples.
People are fickle and easily replace conveniences at the first sign of turbulence.
Loyalties extend as far as their annoyance will allow. Which is typically in short supply.
Not that I truly don't have faith in the site that I've built or the application’s value. There is really nothing else out there that offers what we offer all in one place. But the whole "grass is greener" thing occurs in every aspect of life. Phones, computers, products, jobs, life, love. Especially where emotions are involved.
My phone pings, interrupting my thoughts with a text message from Seamus. Reminding me of that night with the guys and how Elena showed up for me. Even though it was probably the last thing she wanted to do after that shit day at work. It felt like a declaration of love, and I felt so proud that she is mine.
Seamus: We're planning your very belated bachelor party with blessings from your wife. You free the second weekend of next month?
Me: This is a very bad idea.
Seamus: I'm telling your wife you said that.
As I start my reply, my phone rings, and Cruz's name appears. I flinch back, shocked because he never calls me for anything, which has my concern instantly skyrocketing.
"Cruz?" I answer.
"Hey Jake, sorry to bug you but um, Elena... she's… being weird."
"What do you mean, weird? Is she okay?" I ask, with obvious worry in my tone.
"Yes, I think so, but we were supposed to go out for a drink after work today. She had a meeting with Matt, and right after he left her office, she stormed out and left and looked… frazzled. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was, well, I think she was crying, and Elena doesn't cry." He does a little hmm thing, and I can picture him looking at his nails with his eyebrows raised in such factuality. Because, no, she doesn't cry.
"What was the meeting about, do you know?" I inquire, standing up to get my shoes on.
"It was just an accountability meeting regarding the Ford account, which he seems to have seized the whole boss role in like the arrogant prick that he is." I squint, confused by his statement.
Matt is not her boss. So, I'm not sure why she's having an accountability meeting with him and not her CEO, that she reports to. She mentioned he was the one that got the meeting, so maybe he's still involved. Clearly, she's not telling me something.
"Thanks for calling me, Cruz. I'll let you know when she's home and that she's okay," I tell him, genuinely happy that he called me.
I hang up the phone and walk through the house to grab a few of my things. Slipping on my shoes in a rush and grabbing my jacket along with my keys and wallet.
She's been a little distant this week, but nothing that I've noticed out of the ordinary. Although an alien could have landed on our roof, and I probably wouldn't have noticed in the last two days.
Shit.
For someone who likes to watch, I definitely haven't been paying attention to the details that matter.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to locate her phone. We use this app to find our phones when they are lost, but this is the second time I've used it to locate her, and I hate that I feel like I have to.
When the map comes up, I see her phone symbol, which is hovering mine, like a duplicate reflection. I use two fingers to zoom in and see that she's home.
Confused, I look around the house, in case I was that inundated with work and completely missed her coming home, then peer out the window and see her car is in the driveway. She's fixing her hair and running her fingers below her eyes, wiping evidence of any tear-stained cheeks and smudged makeup.
I already know she's in the process of her typical retraction. Hiding everything she is feeling and withholding anything that happened today.
Goddammit, Elena.
Storming out there demanding answers isn't going to help anyone in this case. Fighting every single cell in my body to avoid going out there, I place my keys and wallet back on the side table and kick off my shoes.
It takes another couple of minutes for her to walk through the door. By this time, I'm in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine for each of us.
Our home is completely open when you walk in, so there is a full view of the living, dining, and kitchen areas. It's a blessing when we have people over, but does nothing for trying to privately walk in the front door.
"Hi, my queen. I just opened a bottle. I hope you feel like red tonight," I say, as I finish pouring the second glass. I push her glass towards the front of the island as she walks towards me.
"Sounds great," she replies with the emotion of a sea urchin.
"Bad day?" I look at her over the top of the wine glass as I lift it to my lips.
"A long week. I'm glad it's Friday," the tight-lipped smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Well, that is the most bullshit generic response I've ever heard. The one you feed strangers when they ask you how you are doing. She's infuriating when she is closed off, and sometimes, I wish I was a man who lost my temper so she could see how much it pisses me off.
"Cruz called." She snaps a look up in my direction, her eyes wide like saucers. "He said you guys had plans tonight, but you left… suddenly."
"He was confused," she replies quickly.
"He seemed concerned," I bite back just as fast.
"It's next week. We're going to Happy Hour sometime next week." Whatever happened is locked in a vault and she has thrown the key into a black hole in another fucking universe.
"Okay." I blow out a long breath of defeat.
I round the island to stand behind her, moving her hair behind her neckline and wrap my arms around her shoulders. As I lean in, I physically feel her shudder.
She fucking shudders.
It has me pause long enough for her to step out of my embrace.
"I just need to shower, wash off the day." She sets down her wine glass and walks towards the stairs without a backward glance in my direction.
I know this is how she processes things, but something feels off. Really off.
As she ascends the stairs, I grab my wine glass and instinctually down it like it's a shot. Which goes down as easily as water at this point.
Pulling out my phone, I text Cruz to let her know she is home, and he replies with a thumbs-up emoji.
I decide to jump back on my computer and get some more work done while she's cleaning up to give her the privacy I know she needs. Although, my thoughts keep drifting back to her. Her red-rimmed eyes and blotching cheeks and that goddamn shudder.
I Google Ford Enterprises and Christian Ford's name, digging to find something–anything. I have no idea what I'm even looking for or why I'm looking into the guy who was in my wife last week. I should have no business doing this, and wouldn't have to, if she would just open up and communicate.
I find myself getting more and more flustered by the fact that the guy is literally squeaky clean–at least on paper–according to the whole trusty internet. He's 38, never married, no kids, went to Yale, graduated top of his class, of course he did, and started Ford Enterprises, building it from the bottom up. He's pictured at a few events with a couple of different women, but no over-the-top scandals that I can find, and I'm not getting any weird psycho vibes from him. Only, I'm now annoyed at the perfection that is Christian Ford.
