Page 51 of Best Man on Campus

“Therapy for what, Jazzy? Tell me your story. What happened to you?”

His guard is down and he looks like he’s waiting for me to hit him again, figuratively if not physically, with another battery of accusations and denials. My fucking mistreatment of him is so despicable it almost makes me cry.

He squeezes me, kisses my temple, and his hot breath soothes me.

“What didn’t happen to me?” I try and joke it off, look away from him and his deep, compassionate eyes. We’re naked in bed and there’s no way I can talk to him this way, no way I can acknowledge the jagged edges of my past as it tears through to the present, with us like this and me so exposed.

Throwing back the covers, I jump out of his bed and pull a T-shirt over my head, not caring that it’s his, maybe wanting it to be his, the scent of him passing on the comfort, present, but just distant enough not to freak me.

“You want the long or short version?” I don’t even know what I’m going to tell him, if I’m going to tell him anything. It’s been so long since I’ve lived through the scenes except in my nightmares. Having to travel there is why I stopped seeing Dr. Dani.

“We have all night,” he says, reaching for me. He didn’t bother pulling the covers back over him so I feast my eyes on his lean muscled body, just over six feet of perfectly proportioned man. There’s no way to prevent my eyes from zeroing in on his cock like heat-guided missiles. And his cock is hot. But even more than that, it’s perfect like the rest of him, solid with a head like an arrow I can feel waking up my pussy right this second from three feet away. I can feel the slick taste of him, the way it convulses and then erupts in my mouth. I swallow all the drool pooling in my mouth now.

I’ve never wanted another man the way I want him, but I can’t let him know that. What can I let him know? Standing in his shirt, wearing no panties, I go back to his bed and sit on the edge. Making a decision, I speak.

“I was raised by my grandmother until I was fourteen and Grams passed. I only saw my mother a few times in all those years and what I remember most about her is the stench of cigarette smoke and the long hair hanging on an emaciated face that reminded me of a skull barely covered in skin.”

“Fuck.” He reaches for me, wrapping an arm around me before I can stop him.

“Save it, unicorn boy, we’re just getting started.” I don’t know if I can take his consolation and still hit him with the sledgehammer of my disgusting life. So I fight against his pull and he leaves me be, sitting up with him lying behind me so I don’t have to see his face, his eyes. But I can feel the warmth, the strength of his body, of his presence. So I continue.

“I had an uncle Killian—I called him Uncle Kill and he approved. He’d always been nice to me and made me feel special, showed up on every birthday and brought me gifts. Most importantly, he gave me a guitar and taught me to play. He was in a band. Small time. Grams even approved of his playing and singing and would listen to us sing duets sometimes. But she never liked me going with him anywhere, but one day he took me for an ice cream when I needed cheering because it was the day I became a woman. Grams was angry when he brought me back and I defended him.

“ ‘Tell Grams all about our outing for ice cream, Jazzy. Don’t leave anything out,’ he said to me.

“I thought it was odd because there was nothing special to tell except we waited on line and he recommended the chocolate peanut butter and I got a large cone and I didn’t miss a drop of it. I was eleven and still mostly innocent, at least about sex. I was toughened by life and having to do a lot around the house to help Grams, but I was happy.” I turn and look at Ben to see if he’s convinced and he brushes a strand of hair from my face, gives me a small smile, but he doesn’t say anything, silently begging me to go on, so I do.

“Half the kids in school didn’t have a father or mother or both and some of them were in foster care and those were the kids to be pitied. I was in charge of my life. Or so I thought. But fate and the gods have a way of toying with a person, twisting reality around until there’s nothing left that resembles what you had yesterday.” I heave a deep sigh and he leans closer, putting a hand on my hip, just touching me, reassuring me.

“Fate’s a fucker,” he says, that’s all and he lets me be without prompting. My heart stutters with the need to throw myself at him then and beg forgiveness for everything. But I don’t, because the only thing I have to offer right now is the truth. What he wants most of all. And I pray I have the strength to give it to him as a shudder runs through me.

“When Grams died I was fourteen. I called Uncle Kill because I didn’t want to go into foster care and had no clue where my mother was. He came and got me and took me to an apartment in a skanky house in a bad part of Lowell. It was away from my friends, out of my neighborhood and school district, but he drove me every day to my old school and picked me up so I didn’t have to change schools. We sang songs together in the car, whatever was on the radio or sometimes songs he would make up. I loved him.” I let that memory of how I loved him run through me, but it always ends with a cold chill when I do, so I hurry and continue.

“He was kind and thoughtful and fun and funny and made me feel special. And he had the best voice. I thought he should be a rock star and he’d laugh when I told him so and tell me someday. When he had gigs out of town we arranged it so I could stay at a friend’s house for a couple of nights.” I take a deep breath, my heart speeding up now, but I keep going.

“When I turned fifteen he wrote me a song for my birthday and got a cake. I was in heaven and my friends all had crushes on him. I liked boys, but none of the young twits could measure up to the standard Uncle Kill set.” My chest tightens, it’s getting harder to talk, but I force myself.

“He had a gig on Saturday night, the weekend after my fifteenth birthday, almost a year after I’d been staying with him. He said he’d be home late, possibly not until the next morning, but I could stay home by myself if I wanted. So I did.” My throat is closing and I can hardly breathe now, my head buzzing. Ben sits up behind me and wraps his arms around me and, without saying a word, he gives me his strength and I take it, let it wash over me.

“Killian came home in the middle of the night.” My voice is strong and sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else, some distant part of me, because I’d locked up the memory for so long and so deep, though it was always there hovering. Ben’s arms tighten and I feel him tense, his breathing quicken.

“He came into my room. He sat on the edge of my bed and I woke up when he stroked my cheek. He talked to me in a low voice, telling me about his night and I listened. He said good night and I told him I loved him. He hesitated, stayed sitting on my bed, and leaned over, kissing me on my forehead. I smelled the liquor on him, but I didn’t care.

“I must have fallen asleep then. Things are murky. I.. think I was dreaming.”

“What do you mean, Jazzy? Tell lme about your dream.” His voice is deep with apprehension, I can feel his fear and determination, the rumble of energy in him. I don’t want to tell Ben about my nightmares. I haven’t told anyone about those. But maybe that’s why I keep having them.

“I… I dreamed that he… uncle Killian touched me, pulled my panties off, that he… “ I feel like that young girl, unsure and confused and struggling. Ben’s hard breathing and the tightening of his arms around me force me to look at him then, to see his blazing eyes filled with horror and panic wells up, my heart like a lead ball in my chest pinging around eratically.

“It was only a nightmare, a dream, not part of the story” I say holding his gaze and he nods, touching my face. “But a loud bang woke me. I heard a crashing noise that sounded like the back door. Then the next thing I knew Uncle Killian jumped from the bed, swearing.” I don’t know why he was still there. Bile rises in my throat as I try and make sense, to remember the details that fade in and out like I’m looking through a pool of water at myself, but I gulp in a breath and push it aside. My heart pounds remembering vividly the horror of what comes next in my story. Nothing is going to stop me from getting it out of me.

“What was Killian doing in your bed—” Ben’s voice sounds dark and dangerous and I snap my eyes to his, a surge of fear rising in me, threatening to shut me down.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Let me tell you my story, what happened next.”

“Okay, Jazzy. It’s okay.”

“Killian stood next to the bed, telling me to stay put, but before he had a chance to move, to find out who the intruder was, the bedroom door banged open and a woman rushed inside.