The Player (Chicago Bratva 8)

I lower to my knees at his feet and unbutton his pants. His manhood bulges against the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. I free his erection and fist it. I’m going to give him the best blowjob I know how.

I open my lips, but as my mouth gets close, unwanted memories flood my mind. Fear makes my muscles seize. My throat closes. The mechanical whirring of gears clangs and rattles in my ears.

I jerk back, suddenly that other girl–the broken one.

I’m going to be sick.

I run for the bathroom.

“Nadia?” Flynn charges after me, his voice laced with concern, which only makes it worse.

I shut the bathroom door, trying to lock it, but he twists the handle before I do. I jump back as it flies open.

“I’m sorry.” I shake all over. My body’s in trauma, even though my mind wants to stay with Flynn.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping into the small space with me. “It’s okay.” He opens his arms but doesn’t make any demands.

I was ready to crouch in the corner and hide, embarrassed over my breakdown, but it seems so much simpler to just enter the circle of his embrace.

When I do, he tightens his arms around me. “You don’t have to run and hide from me.” He rocks from foot to foot, slow dancing with me around the bathroom, his lips on my hair. “We’re in this together.”

I let out a rough sob.

“I signed up for this, remember? I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

“It was earlier,” I complain.

“Yeah. And this time it wasn’t. That’s okay, too.” He massages the back of my neck.

“I wanted to…” I can’t even talk about giving head. The memory of being repeatedly forced is too much in the forefront of my brain.

“It’s cool. Everything’s fine, Peaches. Let’s go to bed. Are you staying the night?”

Am I? I didn’t think that far ahead. Tonight, I’ve blissfully lived moment by moment, and they were all great until now.

But Flynn’s inviting me to spend the night with him.

Flynn Taylor, the guy who doesn’t do girlfriends. The king of casual sex. The unrepentant player.

He wants me in his bed tonight. And not for sex.

I lift my head and nod.

“Want a toothbrush?” He opens a cabinet below the sink and produces one still in the package.

I give him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

He just gives me that easy grin and puts a line of toothpaste on his toothbrush then mine. We stand at the sink and brush our teeth together like an old married couple.

It feels easy. The trauma starts to slip off me, like a jacket I can take off when I come inside from the cold. My heartbeat calms. The sweating in my palms goes away. I still feel queasy, but I try not to think about it.

I watch Flynn brush his teeth, his muscles flexing against his shirt. He makes even the most ordinary action look sexy.

We both spit and rinse our mouths out, and Flynn heads to the bedroom while I use the toilet. When I get to the bedroom, the lights are off. He has the covers open, and he’s lying in bed propped on one elbow, waiting for me.

I climb in beside him, and he rolls to wrap an arm around my waist. For a while, I listen to the sound of his breath, wondering what he thinks about me now. He didn’t seem disappointed. I think I’m more disappointed than he is.

As if in answer to my wondering, he murmurs, “You’re strong, Nadia. And brave. You will shake this.”

I roll over in the dark and rest my head on his shoulder. “I was drugged most of time,” I tell him, my accent thicker with emotion.

It seems easier to talk about it in the dark. I can almost smell the nauseating scent of cigar smoke, but I inhale Flynn’s scent instead.

“It was–how do you say it in English–a blessing and a curse. Both.”

“Yeah?”

“Blessing because my memories are all fuzzy. I can almost pretend it was nightmare–not real.”

Flynn strokes my cheek but otherwise doesn’t respond, leaving the space open for me to go on.

“It’s a curse because when they do surface, I get confused and scared. I have a strong reaction.”

Flynn makes a rumbling sound.

“It took my brain chemistry a long time to adjust after I got free. Some of my depression was chemical. I wanted to scrub my brain of all of it, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“But when you asked me to go to a party with you, I asked for the anti-anxiety medication my therapist wanted me to try. And it does help.”

“There’s no shame in using medication, for the time being or permanently. Whatever it takes for you to regain your life, Nadia.”

I nestle closer to him. “You’re so wise for your age. Why is that?”

“My mom struggles with mental illness. She was hospitalized a lot when I was growing up… for depression.”