“We’ve never celebrated Mr. Kennedy’s birthday before but Rich insists that it’s today,” Christine tells me as she pulls out of the garage.
I’m eager to get out and go to the grocery store with her for my own reasons. And knowing it’s his birthday, I want to buy him a gift.
“Why do you sound stressed?” I question, smoothing still-wet tendrils of hair back into my bun, as she drives down the road. I think it’s funny he lets her drive this huge-ass Cadillac Escalade. Christine with her sweet disposition looks like she’s a mafia mom or something.
She sighs. “He keeps to himself when it comes to his past. I want to make it special but I don’t even know what cake he’d prefer.”
I smile at her. It’s sweet that she worries about something as simple as what cake he’d like for his birthday.
The afternoon goes well, and if I didn’t adore Christine before, I absolutely love her now. She’s funny and spunky, filling a void in my heart that I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed. Christine is like a fun aunt who knows how to cook but can also shop like nobody’s business. The woman dragged me through half of Seattle before we ended up at the grocery store—our original destination four hours later. I’d laughed when she’d bought Brax all sorts of crap. Meanwhile, I’d bought him one gift. Simple and inexpensive. And perfect.
We’d decided on chocolate cake because I’d insisted. I didn’t tell her I knew he’d love it because he’d eaten chocolate syrup from my body like a hungry little bear in front of his friends not that long ago. The memory heats my neck and I think about making love to him in the pool. We’d done it once more in the shower after. And just like last night, he murmured that he loved me.
My heart thrums in my chest. Is Brax really my happily ever after? Do I even deserve one after everything I’ve been through? Deep down, I know the answer is yes.
But then there’s Jimmy.
Guilt twists in my gut. I’d love to forget Jimmy’s promise to come back for me. To go on and enjoy my life with Brax, pretending I never ran into Jimmy back in Vegas. Life could be perfect. I could settle and enjoy the peace I’ve longed for.
I’d tried to convince Brax to sell the company. I hoped maybe I could be two steps ahead of Jimmy. By Brax selling, the only operation that could be questionable in the eyes of the law would no longer be associated with him. Then, I could reveal to Brax who my husband was—that it was him who’d beat me up back in Vegas. And he could keep me safe from him.
My heart sinks. Jimmy won’t give up without a fight. He knows people and none of them are good. The truth of the matter is, I’d be a sitting duck.
I have to tell Brax though. He’s smart and fierce. Surely he could figure out a plan.
“Learn to drive, idiot,” Christine gripes as she glances at the headlights in her mirror. It’s dark now and they bounce wildly from behind us.
Turning in my seat, I’m alarmed to see the driver swerving erratically.
“Pull over and let him pass. He’s probably drunk,” I tell her.
She nods and starts to slow but he seems to speed up. Before I can warn her, he slams into the back of the Escalade.
“Shit! Go, Christine!”
She gasses it and we tear off down the dark highway. I’m surprised when she flies through the cars, weaving in and out like she was a Nascar driver in a past life. I turn in my seat again to see the car mimicking our actions.
“He’s following us,” I shout.
She guns it and soon whips off an exit I don’t remember. We haul ass down some back roads and through a neighborhood. When we turn down a road with a few houses, she hits a button on the visor and I watch in shock as a garage opens. Even in the dark, I can tell the home is expensive—not quite as big as Brax’s but still nice. She whips into the two car garage and presses the button once more. When we’re safe in the confines of the garage, she turns to me, her eyes wide.
“We need to call Mr. Kennedy.”
I nod and climb out of the Escalade. “Whose house is this?”
She smiles at me as she fishes her phone from her purse. “It’s mine.”
I gape at her but follow her inside. The décor reminds me of my home growing up. Despite it being an expensive home, her decorations are homey and old-fashioned.
“I thought you lived with Brax.”
“Sweetheart, I stay there when he needs me but when he’s on business, I come home. That house is too big and lonely otherwise. In fact, we all go home. Dubois even has a home on Lake Sammamish too, though he prefers to rent it out. Besides, I think he loves being Mr. Kennedy’s shadow and typically goes with him on those out of town trips. Mr. Kennedy purchased them all the year we started with him as a bonus if you will. The Escalade’s mine too, compliments of our boss.”
My brows are at my hairline. No wonder he got pissed when I told him he doesn’t pay them enough. He pays them too much. I think back to the white Porsche Cayenne of Cartier’s I rode around in a few days ago. I’m about to ask her what Dubois’ car is when she gets someone to answer.
“Cartier, I need to speak with Mr. Kennedy. Can you put him on?”
Her eyes dart to mine and her brows furrow, disappointment morphs her features.
“I see. That’s severely unfortunate being that it’s his birthday and all. I know, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” she sighs. “Listen, dear. Jessica and I were hit by a car.”
I can hear Cart shrieking on the other line.
“We’re okay and the damage can be fixed. The car followed us but we got away. I’m here at my house with her. What should we do?”
She nods and eventually she hangs up.
“What’d he say?” I ask.
“He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
I hold my purse against me and glare at Cartier in the entryway of Braxton’s home. “Spit it out,” I say with a growl.
Christine is just as anxious but something tells me he divulged to her over the phone earlier more than he’s willing to tell me.
“He left in a fury,” he groans, running his fingers through his chocolate curls.
“Where’d he go?”
My lip is quivering and I hate that I’m so weak. He’d promised he wouldn’t shut me out and here he just whisked off without so much as a goodbye.
“Vegas. There was a fire. A bad one.”
“An accident?” I whisper as the room spins. Please let it be an accident.
“Arson. He thinks it was Trevor.”
Bile rises in my throat. If Trevor tried to burn down his hotel, then who tried to run Christine and I off the road?
Jimmy.
“I, uh, don’t feel so well. I’m going to lie down.” I rush past them and nearly run into Richard. He grips my biceps and stares fiercely into my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
I shake my head willing my tears not to spill over. He frowns and pulls me in for a quick hug, kissing me on top of the head before he releases me. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Jessica. I promise. Everything will work out.”
My smile is forced but I nod as if I agree and make my way back to Brax’s sanctuary. It won’t be okay. Because if Jimmy is involved, he will not stop until he has me. He’ll ruin all of their lives, Brax especially, because of me. Christine, Cartier, and Dubois will become jobless. Rich will lose his only child. And Brax will end up dead or in prison. Once again, it disgusts me. I should have known Jimmy wouldn’t have waited the full six months. It isn’t his style. When he wants something, he takes it. After seeing me in Vegas, he probably went home, formulated a plan, and is now executing said plan. It’s just the way he is.
This time he won’t win. He won’t take down my friends and the man I love. I’ll get the hell out of here and spare their futures.
Once inside his room, I inhale the scent of him that lingers in the air. The floor vent and blanket call to me—a beacon of promise that my problems will go away. But they won’t go away. I’m not delusional. I drop my purse on the bed and rummage until I find the bag with his gift in it as well as the other item I’d picked up at the drug store.
When I first started this journey with Brax, I’d been given an implant to prevent pregnancy and even had a couple of normal periods after. But, having been pregnant before, I know the first signs. Tiredness, swollen, sore breasts, emotional outbursts, nausea, missed period. A part of me begged for these to just be signs of stress—that there wasn’t a chance the implant wouldn’t have taken properly.
Yet . . .
Another part of me hopes. Hopes for the creation of something between Brax and I, this time, a something I can protect. I’m stronger now—more prepared.
I follow the instructions and once I’ve peed on the stick, I wait. My heart throbs in my chest. I’m on the fence about what I want. If Jimmy weren’t in the picture, I wonder what Brax’s reaction would be. Would he be angry? Excited? Would he want to give me his last name legally instead of whispers of it on his tongue?
After a long time, I pick up the stick.
I’m staring at it and my tears begin to blur the test in front of me. Grabbing hold of the countertop, I brace myself. This changes everything. An answer on a tiny white stick points me in the direction I must go. Because no matter how much I want things to work out with Brax, they can’t. Not with Jimmy, the fucking monster, lurking in the shadows. He ruined me—took life from me once. I’ll be damned if that happens again.
After I wrap up the stick, I shove it down into the trash can, hiding the evidence under the bag. Now’s the perfect time to leave. Brax is in Vegas and I can slip out undetected. Money is a problem though. I’m going to have to take from him, as much as I hate the idea. But, surely he owes me for the time spent. I’ll take enough to make good on the promise to Cherry too and to get the hell out of Seattle.
I remember the safe I discovered while hanging my clothes up is in his closet. On shaky legs, I make my way in there. Before, I didn’t have a reason to attempt to open it. Now, I pray I can crack the code. With a hopeful sigh, I mash in 1982 and the sound of a click grants me access. I turn the lever and open the safe that’s chest high and about three feet wide. Inside I find several handguns, a few metal stars that looked to be carved from aluminum, a few stacks of bound hundred dollar bills, some documents, and a thick book.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I slip the book from the shelf. It’s heavy, and by the way it bulges, I’m led to believe it’s a scrapbook. I sit on the closet floor and open it up.
The first page is a picture of the woman who must be his mother. Her hair is nearly black like his and her eyes are intense. One corner of her mouth quirks up in a smile as she holds the hand of a small boy. Her clothes, even back in the eighties, are tight, short, and for lack of a better word, skanky. Brax is looking up at her as if she’s the sun and the moon. It makes my chest ache to see his dark, mop of hair on his head. He’s sockless under his shoes and the only reason I can tell is because his pants are several inches too short. They were so poor and yet in his eyes, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was her.
My emotions get the better of me and I cry for him. With each shudder of my chest, I ache for him—for the small boy in the picture. Once I compose myself, I turn the page. A handwritten note by him makes my heart stop beating altogether.
Mama,
When I get really big I am going to bild a big huje hotel so we can live there forver. It will be warm and not cold. It will have lots and lots of food. It will have showers with sops that smell good. It will have nice people and kids to play with. You wont have to work ever again. I will give you all the muny and we can eat ham all day. I love you mama.
Braxxy
The letter had been written on the back of a flier and had been folded many times. It makes me wonder if it was something she held on to—something she cherished. I run my fingers over the note and choke back a sob. The next page has Richard Kennedy’s card pasted on it. There’s a picture of Brax and Rich below it. He’s written 1982 all over the page as if the numbers are special to him, lucky even. I notice they were the extension of Rich’s phone number on the business card. In the picture, Richard proudly hugs the somber teen Brax against his side. Even though Brax isn’t smiling, he’s clutching onto Rich as if he might disappear at any moment.
Looking into his past only makes me want to stay. It makes me want to beat his cell phone number out of Cartier and call him to tell him that I love him. That I’m pregnant with his child. With shaky fingers, I turn the page.
Toy # 1 - Pup
A picture of a dirty woman, looking quite like his mother from the first page graces the page. Below it is the same woman dressed in an exquisite dress, an elegant smile on her lips. I stare at her for some time and realization hits me. It cuts me to my core. I’m a toy just like her. Not a surprise to me since he’s spoken of them before but seeing it on the pages of a book, I am disgusted.
The next page is a picture of her in the Hole. She’s hogtied and bruises mar her flesh. Her eyes are lost but she doesn’t hate him. Nobody could ever hate Brax, even when he can be a mean bastard. It makes me jealous she’s shared him in all the same ways. I swallow and look at the next page.
The woman, dressed beautifully, has a black covering over her eyes and duct tape over her mouth. Tears are running down her cheeks as she lays across the seat of his car. A strand of her hair is tied in a ribbon and attached to the page. My heart catches in my chest when I read his scribbled words.
Goodbye forever, Pup
The date has been scrawled beneath it.
Toy #2 - Kitten
More of the same. Before and after pictures. Pictures in the Hole. Pictures of her tied up. Lock of her hair. Goodbye forever, Kitten. And then her end date.
Shit!
I flip through the pages until I get to a beautiful Asian woman. Toy #19 is named Swan. A lock of her black, silky hair. So beautiful and the love in her eyes is evident. She worshipped him and had hope for something more.
Like me.
My heart skips a few beats when I see her end page too. This can’t be. Does he kill these women? Did I fall in love with a serial killer? Jesus!
I don’t want to see what’s after because I sense I’m not going to like it. Just close the book, Jessica. Close the fucking book. But the curiosity once again wins out—it always wins out and I flip the page.
A frown tugs at my lips to see Toy #20. Her name is Bunny. The first picture is of me, dirty and disgusting standing in the bathroom of the hotel. I must have been out of my head from the heroin because I don’t remember him taking the picture. My hair is a fright and I’m so lost. It’s sick. Then, the next picture is of me in the salon. Cartier had taken a picture of me I remember but didn’t pay much attention to the reason. I’m beautiful and clean, the smile is forced but present.
No.
Please no.
The next picture is of me in the Hole. His fist is in my hair and you can tell he took the picture while he fucked me. All you can see is his muscular arm, veins protruding. I absently run a finger across his arm in the picture.
Surely he changed his ways with me. The sincerity was there. He professed his love to me. The man may have fucked me wild but he also held me in front of his fire on his vent. He whispered assurances into my ear and made love to me with more passion than any other man in my life.
Unless he did this with all of them.
Am I so fucking stupid that I went right along with his games?
I’m a goddamned pawn on his chessboard?
When I flip the page, there is no picture but the words at the bottom answer my questions.
Goodbye forever, Bunny.
The date is that of which matches the one on our contract. A contract to kill. A contract to reform a whore, fuck with her head into believing he loves her, and then slaughter her like the rest.
My fingers flutter over my belly and I look around me. Once again, I’m sitting in a closet, assuring my baby everything will be okay, and fearing a man who’s clearly a monster. The irony’s not lost on me.
I think back to a phone conversation I had with Nat not long after I first met her.
“You swear this is confidential?” My voice cracks and I’m glad I’m alone, hiding in the dark Theater Room.
“Of course, Jessica,” Nat assures me. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
I sigh and with my exhaled breath, I blurt it out. “Six years ago, I left an extremely abusive relationship. Not only was I verbally and emotionally abused, but he also hurt me physically and sexually.”
“I see. Go on, honey.”
I swallow and my voice quivers, unshed tears welling in my eyes. “So why do I like what Brax does to me? I mean, my abuser humiliated me all the time. He punished me for things I didn’t even have control over. So why am I subjecting myself to this again?”
She rustles some papers and then responds. “I want you to understand something, dear. Domestic violence and BDSM are not the same thing. BDSM is based upon consent. Domestic violence is not. You keep telling me that you like what Brax does to you—that it turns you on. That doesn’t make you sick or in dire need of psychological help. That’s your way of maintaining the control that you were never awarded in your prior relationship. You have trust in Brax that if you were to pull the plug, he’d stop. But you don’t want to pull the plug. BDSM is all about trust whereas the domestic violence is based on fear. There’s nothing wrong with you, honey. And if it ever came to a point that you feared him, then that would mean the relationship is no longer a healthy one but one lacking the very trust that is crucial for such a dynamic sexual relationship to exist.”
I blink away the memory and glance over at his shoes lined neatly along the wall. They’re so normal and unassuming—nothing like the monster who wears them each day. I’m afraid for my unborn child. After seeing that book—seeing what he does to those women—I can’t trust that I’ll somehow be given a reprieve. That I’ll be different. I’m taking the sex doctor’s advice and I’m taking back control.
I stand up and yank the two wads of money from the shelf. The book gets tossed back into the safe where it belongs—never seeing the light of day. Lifting my chin, I swipe the tears from my cheeks.
History is not repeating itself.
This story ends now.
I will not let this happen. My baby will not die this time.
Goodbye forever, Braxxy.