Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

And then I let myself fall onto her. Bury myself into her. I’m still inside of her, still pulsing cum into her soaked flesh, but Marjorie puts her arms around me and holds on. She strokes the back of my neck. Rubs her palms over my shoulder blades. “I liked that,” she whispers, and I can hear how much she liked it in her voice. I couldn’t scare her. She knew it was a fucking game all along. “Are you okay?”

It renders me speechless. What do I say to the sweet little innkeeper I just pinned down and fucked? Am I okay? Am I fucking okay?

No.

I’m lost.

Chapter Eleven

Marjorie

It’s dark out in front of the house. Trees from the woods take up the grass. They’re all shadows, looming above. My father stands outside in the moonlight. The breeze ruffles his hair. A crack in the woods like a branch snapping draws his attention. “It’s time to go inside, sweetheart,” he says.

“Are you coming?”

His hand comes down on my shoulder. There’s another crack in the woods. He bends down to my level. “Run,” he says. “Get inside. Run.”

I run as fast as I can to the front door and go inside. It locks behind me, but Dad isn’t there. He was supposed to come with me. My legs don’t carry me fast enough to the living room window.

“Dad.” I tap my fingers on the window. “Dad.”

He doesn’t hear me. It should be quiet enough for the sound to carry. He’s not that far away. Dread squeezes my stomach. Why is he out there? The best place to be is inside. Behind the locked door. He should be in bed. Sleeping. It’s late. That’s what my parents always say to me. I need to get good rest so I’m ready for the morning. Being in the front yard all night is not how you get good rest.

What is there to run from?

I tap on the window again. “Dad?”

A black car pulls into the driveway. The headlights are off. That’s not safe, either. They could hit him. It would be hard to see without any headlights. The front door opens, and a man climbs out. Another man comes from the backseat. Two more. The car doubles in size. My dad keeps one hand in his pocket and puts the other one out, palm facing them. He’s talking to them. I can’t hear what he’s saying.

They get closer to him. That can’t be right. My dad is a big, powerful man. Why would anyone want to surround him like that? No one needs to bother him this late. It doesn’t make any sense. The car’s features keep changing. One second it’s boxy. The next second it’s got curved lines and looks newer.

My dad’s in trouble. That’s what trouble looks like. It looks like being in a crowd of men in dark clothes. But why? He’s never done anything to these people. He’s just my dad. He stayed out too late, that’s all. It’s past bedtime.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” I say through the window. “Stop. Dad. Come inside.”

He backs up one step, but there’s a man waiting behind him. When my dad turns his head, I can see that he’s still speaking. His mouth moves and moves. The other men are speaking, too. They’re all talking. There’s no way they can hear each other. They won’t be able to understand if they keep interrupting him like that.

“Listen to him,” I demand, but the glass keeps my words inside with me. Anger and fear twist together in my gut. It’s rude to talk over people. It’s rude to ignore my dad. They can’t just come here to the yard and do this. “Listen to him. Please stop talking.”

One of them grabs for him.

He pulls his arm out of reach.

They swarm him like hornets. Fists fly. My dad crumples to the ground, but he stands back up. He’s outnumbered. There are just too many men for him to fight off. The blows land against his body. I’ve never been in a fight like that. It has to hurt so much. My stomach knots up. No, please. Not my dad. Don’t hurt him like that. Don’t hit him—

A gun shines in the moonlight.

I’ve seen movies. I’ve seen my dad’s gun. I’ve seen lots of guns in my life, and I know what it means when someone takes one out. It means that someone’s going to get hurt. Badly hurt.

“Dad, come inside. Come inside right now.”

I won’t ask for anything else, ever again. I won’t ask for toys or birthday cake or piggyback rides. I won’t ask him why he’s always working so much. All I need is for him to run away from those men and lock the door behind him. It’s not far. He could make it.

The man with the gun steps back and points it at my dad.