Free A Measure of Happiness by Lorrie Thomson

ached, as though she were expecting her period. Which she was not. She unzipped her jeans, pushed them over her hips, and the fabric scraped against her thigh, shooting a pain all the way to her throat. Upon closer inspection, a wide, sensitive swatch of black-and-blue stood out against the pink flesh of her inner thigh. Not the first time sex had left her bruised.
    The first time she and Justin had had sex was a disappointment. It had hurt when he’d entered her, and wasn’t the tearing supposed to have catapulted her into an orgasm? She was just about ready to give up on the whole stupid sex thing. But on the third or fourth try, something clicked, she got off, and she knew she’d discovered her favorite sport of all time. Missionary style was fine by Justin, but why should they stop at one position when there were endless possibilities and contortions? Bottom, top, sideways. Hands, lips, tongue. The only thing as good as getting pleasure was giving it.
    Sometimes she liked it a little bit rough, a little bit intense. Sometimes Justin called her bossy. At some point, she told Justin she found it funny that she was more into sex than he was. Then he’d called her a sex-crazed slut.
    Then everything had gone to hell.
    At least with Justin she remembered doing everything he claimed she’d done. But she’d only done those things with him.
    Celeste slipped a hand beneath the shower spray. The water had heated, warming her hand but causing the rest of her body to shake. She took off her underwear and held it up to the medicine cabinet light. A tiny drop of dried blood stained the crotch, as though she’d been recently deflowered. And when she stood under the showerhead, the spray stung between her legs. She gritted her teeth, forced herself to endure the pain. Even when her chest convulsed, she squeezed her eyes shut and told herself to get over herself. She told herself to deal with it. Because she’d acted like a sex-crazed slut.
    Because she’d remembered who she was.

C HAPTER 4
    B y quarter of five, Celeste had progressed from the worry she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep to the certainty nothing could prevent another fall.
    Energy jittered beneath her skin. She needed to sleep, she had to sleep. She was sick with the need for sleep. But she had the weird feeling that she also needed to stay wide awake, stand vigil over her sleeping self, and guard the door.
    She’d locked the door. She’d checked the lock twice. She’d had thoughts like this before and learned to ignore them.
    She tucked her blankets beneath her chin and hugged the straw-yellow, love-worn relics, buried her nose in the fluff. She’d slept with the blankets since she was two years old, the year she’d upgraded from crib to big-girl bed. One blanket comforted, two kept her warm. Tonight, she needed both. Lights out, shades drawn against the last hour of daylight, the walls of the unfamiliar bedroom seemed to throb with a pulse. But, of course, it was only her heart beating in her ears, her thoughts keeping her from sleep.
    Her wrong thoughts.
    Above her, the gray ceiling twirled, sleep deprivation masquerading as a hangover. For a few moments she drifted up there and spun in the murky light. Then her covers took on weight, as though a downed tree trunk were pinning her limbs.
    Celeste.
    A male voice breathed her name in her ear. A light flashed from her peripheral vision. And then came the knocking. Hard and sharp and insistent and reverberating in her throat.
    Rap, rap, rap.
    Her eyes snapped open to the nearly empty room, the blank walls, a kind of reverse nightmare. The digital clock on the dresser read 5:03 p.m.
    â€œShit,” Celeste said, all too aware she’d made the same proclamation half an hour ago, the last time she’d awoken with a start, her own personal Groundhog Day . When would she get it—life—right?
    The rapping, she knew, wasn’t even real, just an