Free Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed by Kyra Davis Page B

call. And Tom was right in his predictions. If he exposes me to those who care about such things, to people I care about, he will pull away my newfound courage like the peel off an orange. I’ll lose everything.
    So I soften my tone, offer him a treaty rather than a punch: “I don’t think you see me that way, either. I think you’re angry. But I think that maybe you meant it when you said—”
    “When I said what?” The words come out like venom from a spitting cobra.
    “When you said you wanted me to make you feel love. I think you want to love me again.”
    He takes a step closer, hesitant at first, then another and another, each move becoming a little more confident and a little more aggressive. “He was different from me, yes? Edgier? Rougher? More dominant?”
    “Is that what this is about,” I ask, almost weary, “dominance?”
    “Give me a chance.” His right hand slips to the back of my neck and holds me in place. “I can give you what you want.” His left hand reaches for my breast.
    I slap him in the face.
    Slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, he lowers his hands and moves to the side, picking up his keys from a low table in the foyer.
    “Where are you going?” I ask as he opens the coat closet.
    “I’m going out.” He smiles sardonically before adding, “I need space to consider whether or not I’m going to destroy you. Don’t wait up. It’ll take some thinking.”
    The air’s prickly. I may have pushed him too far. But he’s taking away my options and the violence he keeps pumping into my heart is hard to discipline. “My car’s still at work,” I say quietly.
    “You won’t need it,” Dave says decisively. “I want you to stay here tonight. Your obedience may be the only thing that saves you.”
    I don’t argue this time. There’s no point. I simply stand there as he exits.
    And in my mind my new fantasy is that he never comes back.

CHAPTER 8

    I sTAND ALONE IN the foyer for seconds, minutes, a brief eternity of time as I try to decide on a mental journey that will take me away from this place. What shall I fantasize about now? Swimming through the mellow waves of the Mediterranean? Dancing in New York? But my mind stays stubbornly in the here and now. A few days . . . how many lifetimes have I packed into that small space of time?
    I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy. It seems impossible that I’m at risk of losing to such an unskilled adversary. I’m just not used to this kind of struggle. My opponents have always been my own desires and memories, the war an internal one. And even in that war, my opponents were the conquistadors. They overcame my defenses and occupied my mind with colonial ambitions, bringing me to this hellish reservation where subjugation and servitude are the most obvious means of survival.
    I hear footsteps approaching outside of the door. What could Dave have forgotten? Perhaps an insult or threat that he had neglected to throw my way.
    I back away and watch as the doorknob moves, just a fraction of an inch this way and then the other. Why doesn’t he just turn the key?
    But as I watch the doorknob continue to jiggle, I realize I have another problem.
    The person at the door doesn’t have a key.
    The person on the other side of the door is breaking in.
    I move quickly, not caring how high my skirt hikes up, not caring what’s exposed. As long as I’m able to keep this new nightmare at bay, the dress is inconsequential.
    I reach for the deadlock, but it’s too late. The door swings open and I find myself backing up as quickly as I moved forward, wanting to run but knowing there’s no use.
    But then the intruder isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Robert Dade.
    He takes me in with only the quickest movement of his eyes and then he moves past me, into the living room, standing in the center, his fists clenched at his sides, his ferocious energy flooding the room.
    “Where is he?” he asks.
    His back is to me, which is fine. My anger, shame,