Chrysalis

By Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Last night was about hard holds, pain, and punishment. Today is about soft caresses, softer kisses, and forgiveness.
It all feels the same to me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Barrington-Leigh
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310777110

Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Wife, mother, sister, lover...and one day, a damn fine storyteller.

Book preview

Chrysalis

**-**

Olivia Barrington Leigh

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015

All rights reserved by the Author

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only and remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy atSmashwords.com where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

****

WARNING: ADULT READING MATERIL. This book contains strong language and sexual content.

Prelude

The sharp bite of pain, roughness of scab, and metallic tang of blood catches the breath that started out an attempt to calm my nerves. I refuse to allow the hitching exhale to become a sob. I close my eyes and flinch as the events from the previous night flash behind my close lids in rapid succession. Snatches of time stopped and started. Bullet points of an evening that had started off well enough and ended…well…fucked up. I roll my head in a circle. Tension and stiffness are intimate friends; the stress of what has become my life is married to the pain inflicted on an almost daily basis. I relax every muscle starting with my feet and take note of what hurts. What damage has been done to my body? I don’t worry about the rest, what lies deeper than my bruised and broken flesh. The sound of someone knocking on my front door interrupts the inventory of injuries. I pull open my eyes and stare into the face of a woman I don’t know.

Who are you? I say aloud. I get up before she answers. I don’t expect one and I’m not sure I would have liked the one given anyway.

The tiny bedroom is crowded with only a bed, dresser and small vanity. It wouldn’t look half bad but this morning we match: beat to hell and back. The bed frame is broken and the box spring and mattress are on the floor. The bedding is rumbled not from the tossing and turning of sleep but from a tangle of bodies that had absolutely nothing to do with sex even if the struggle was passion filled. The top drawer of the dresser hangs crooked, giving a sad cocked-eyed wink and the middle drawer is lying on the floor with a pile of clothes covering most of it. The spill of shirts with their dragging sleeves look too much like intestines. At least all my insides are inside. I laugh at my piece of dark humor, a short sound that I cut off before it becomes the cackle of the insane. I make my way down the narrow, dark hallway headed for the living room. Its nine o’clock in the morning and more than likely bright and sunny outside but the original dark-wood paneling puts the center of my house in perpetual darkness. The knocking turns to pounding and I move faster. I know who it is. I know what he wants. It should have broken something in me when I first realized that I preferred teeth and fist over tears and flesh. It didn’t. I’m so fucked up.

Baby...Open the door…please, he calls from the other side. This is part of the game, part of the calm after the storm, or more like the quiet before the real storm. When the heavy rain and hail stops, the winds die down and maybe even the sun comes out seconds before an F4 tornado wipes out the entire town. The door frame is splintered at the doorknob. The pale yellow of the interior wood is a stark contrast to the darker stained outer surface reminding me once more of the spilling of internal organs. Maybe they’re a sign. Subtle hints sent from the universe because obvious, harder ones I seem to ignore. The only thing keeping the door close is the chair I pushed beneath the knob last night. I move it and out of habit my hand closes on the knob. I even twist the damn thing. Bright sunshine, hot humid air, the sound of lawn mowers, weed eaters, and birds greet me in addition to: my tormentor, my warden, the bane of my existence—my boyfriend.

I’m so sorry, he says. His words are long and drawn out, a loud whisper that is thick with emotion. His head hangs down, his shoulders slumped and each breath is a hiccup. He looks up. There are tears running down his face.

I’m…so…sorry, he says again.

He looks so devastated, so distraught, so full of pain and anguish that it’s a wonder his body doesn’t shatter and blow away on the hot August breeze. He pulls himself together, passing his hand over the front of his face, wiping the tears away now that I’ve seen them and know the depth of his sorrow. He straightens his spine and steps into the house. I take a step back, not running, just giving him access. I know the game. I play it well. I’m a pro at this point. I close the door behind him and lean my forehead on it. I can turn my back on him because this is not about the pain he can administer to my body but the pain he swears is in his heart—nay—his very soul.

Baby… he says softly, baby…

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I more feel than hear him take a step towards me. He’s showered and smells like the cologne I bought him for Christmas. He takes another. I hold my breath. I feel his hand on my shoulder. So soft a touch it could be imagined until he presses the length of his body against mine. There was a time I would have flinched. I know better now.

Baby, I’m so sorry, he whispers against my skin, hot breath that dampens the nape of my neck. A feather light kiss follows. I take another deep breath, which—for him—translates as all is forgiven. He wraps his arms around my waist, the deep pain of something bruised, possibly broken stops my breath as he presses closer to me, pressing kisses on my shoulder and neck. I lean my head to the side to give him better access. Last night was about hard holds, pain, and punishment. Today is about soft caresses, softer kisses and forgiveness.

It all feels the same to me.

Part One

Chapter One

Two bodies keep beat with the rhythm of the song blasting from three foot tall speakers in the adjoining room. The smell of cigarette smoke, marijuana, urine and sex (previous and present) fills the traded space that offers little reprieve from the scorching temperatures we left on the dance floor. Of course, I’ve only exchanged one type of dance for another. My body still sway, my thighs still burn, my heart still beats hectic within its cage. Music moved me on a dance floor packed thick with gyrating bodies, and it still does. The cinderblock walls and steel door might as well be paper. I can’t make out the lyrics, but I’ve never cared about words, it’s the music that I love. My calves quiver as I fight to remain on my toes, my sweat dampened hair sticks to my nape and temples, and one hand slips further and further down the watermarked, graffiti-filled mirror with every push and pull while the other grips the edge of the sink. The faucet drips—one drop for every rock of my body. It may seem like I’m not into the sex, but I am. I feel every thick inch invading my body, the hard hold on my hips, the calluses on his hands. I feel the slight scrapping of the sequence from my skirt that has been pushed up over my ass on my back and belly. I feel the sweat on the back of my thighs and bodily fluids racing down the inside of them. My stomach has that roller-coaster fluttering from the orgasm forming in the very center of me. Richard, my lover, is also my friend, and has always been a favored.

Fuck, he grunts behind me. He slaps my ass hard enough to sting, and when I say sting, I mean hurt. But I like it. I like a little pain with my pleasure. He curls his long, lanky body around me, holds me tight and forces me to fall flat on my feet. He bends his knees, the change in angle hitting new spots, one hand lowers and finds my clit. I don’t care about the noise. I yell out. Richard’s right behind me. His dick is stone before it begins to pulse, hard throbs as he comes inside me. His rocks back and forth…slow…oh, so slow, his head resting on my shoulder. He slides free, straightens and rubs the globes of my ass.

I rest my forehead on my forearms a second before standing, grabbing a handful of toilet paper. The good thing about having sex with friends is there’s little awkwardness afterwards. I’m not embarrassed at all as I clean up, nor is he when I pass him a wad of tissue.

Want a drink, Richard asks.

He’s a tall drink of water: six-five. He’s thin…wiry, my grandmother would have called him. His body is hard…defined…beautiful. His nose is wide, it matches is mouth. He has gaps between every tooth, but they’re sexy. He’s sexy. How he looks at me is sexy. I watch him through the mirror.

Yes, please, I say, pulling down my skirt. He nods and looks down my body like I’m a dream come true before leaving me alone. I splash water on my face to cool off. No need to worry about makeup, it melted off four songs ago. I raise my hair from the back of my neck and press a damp paper towel to my nape.

There’s a line when I open the door and I get ugly looks from the handful of girls waiting to get in the bathroom. I should care, instead, I make note to use the men’s next time. And there will be a next time.

There always is.

If it’s possible there are more people in the club than it was when Richard and I took our break from the dance floor. The club is nothing more than a bar that brings in a D.J. on the weekends, and rearrange tables to form a small area to dance. It’s the hottest spot in town.

I see Ray, my best friends, sitting at our table. I’m very pretty, but Ray is goddamn gorgeous…and she knows it. Her look can be summed up in three words: tall, dark and exotic. Her skin is the color of milk chocolate. All through high school she’d been skinny as a rail. Her metabolism slowed in her twenties and she’s really filled out. She has hips and thighs and an ass that won’t quit, tiny waist, big breast—she’s built up like a wet dream.

Hey, girl, she greets me as I slide into my chair facing away from the makeshift dance-floor. Richard comes back holding beers for everyone. He sits with his back to the crowd, too. Ray takes hers and drinks almost the entire thing at once. It’s that hot. She gives me side eye with a dash of arched eyebrow. She knows what I’ve been up to. Hell, if her skinny jeans weren’t painted on she’d be up to the same.

Whew, she says loudly, slamming her bottle down on the table. That hit the spot. Dance with a girl, she tells Richard rising from her seat.

Of course. He hurries to finish the last of his beer.

I watch them elbow their way through the crowd, and people watch as Ray and Richard tear up the dance floor. My roaming eye doesn’t catch anyone of interest. So I sit, quite content, nursing the last inch of beer in the bottle. When the song ends I stand to leave. Richard rode with me but I’m sure Ray will have no problem dropping him off at home. I have to be up early for work tomorrow. Richard’s easy enough to find. He’s one of the tallest people in the place. It’s like some weird kind of telepathy; he looks up as soon as my eyes land on him. I point to the door to signal I’m leaving, he nods his understanding and gives me the devilish smile that I’ve learn to love. Ray looks over and wave good-bye before looping her arms around Richard’s neck. I mumble my apologies to the dozen or so people I bump into on my way to the front door.

Humidity is the word for the day when I emerge from the club. It rained earlier which makes the thick air that much worse. There’s no line outside the joint, but the flow of new patrons is steady. I walk the two blocks back to my car passing people out on the town. It’s football season. The local high school and college teams both won their games. Everyone’s out celebrating. In the South football is a religion.

Now that I’m away from the hustle and bustle of the masses I start to think about the reason I needed a night out with friends. I’d broken up with my latest boyfriend two days prior. Ben and I had only been together six months, but true to form, I was already secretly planning our lives together.

Forever.

Happily.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been that girl. The one that falls in love with anyone who keeps eye contact longer than three seconds. I’ve been planning my wedding since sixth grade. He’s out there somewhere. I know this. I’m certain of it. No doubt.

I drive slow, talking myself out of making a bigger fool of myself by calling Ben. I’d already driven by his house before picking Richard up while playing, I Will Survive. It sounds funny, but really it’s sad and pathetic…and a little stalker-ish. Add in that his house is in the opposite direction and it becomes just plain stalker-ish. I give myself kudos for not driving by on my way home.

The street I’ve lived on most of my life is dark. I’m the youngest person in the cul-de-sac and every house is filled with people I consider family. I went away for a few years but I came home. My mother remarried and her new husband lives in a neighboring town. My youngest sister moved to California after meeting the man of her dreams in college. He graduated and she followed. They’re happy. I’m happy for her.

I let myself in the house and leave a trail of clothes on my way to the bedroom. I don’t worry with lights, just climb into bed after switching on the fan attached to the headboard. The house does not have central A/C and I’m too exhausted to open the window. Even with the ungodly heat the sheets are cool on my body. I like the way cotton feels on my naked skin. Just days ago the comforting weight of Ben’s arm would have be slung over my waist. Things hadn’t been bad; at least I didn’t think so. I guess it’s hard for me to accept that’s its over because Ben really didn’t give me a real reason why he ended things. What the hell do people mean when they say: we grew apart? How is that even possible when we spent every waking minute together when we weren’t at work? I wasn’t clingy, I put out every day, I cook, I clean…what more can a man want for? I blow a breath, frustrated because no matter how many times I play the last few months over in my head, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I made whatever mistake it was that started the ball rolling to Ben leaving me.

Sad.

Pathetic.

Chapter Two

I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans and pull out my vibrating phone then roll my eyes as I answer it. Speak.

Do you care if I sleep with Richard? Ray says, as way of a greeting.

I hold the phone in place with my shoulder and go back to wiping down the bathroom countertop. I work full-time at a chain hardware store but clean houses for pocket money. Today’s house is a six thousand square foot beast that I’ve been working on since eight this morning.

Did he ask you?

Richard and I have been on-again/off-again fuck buddies for the last three years. He might be the one but Richard’s not going places. He’s always worked but I hardly see my knight in shining armor working at the local fast-food joint or slinging miniscule amounts of dope on the corner. Still…I’m willing to share with my best friend. What are friends for?

No, she says, dragging the word out a little. Did I overstep?

I choke on my spit when I start to laugh. When have you ever worried about over stepping, I ask, coughing between every other word.

I don’t, but I know you and Richard have history, and you did just break up with Ben.

Ben broke up with me.

You say to-ma-to, I say to-mo-to, you know what the fuck I mean, Ray says, and now she sounds put out with me. I love her like a sister, more because she doesn’t put up with any of my bullshit.

I don’t care if you sleep with Richard, I say.

Fuck, Richard, there will be no sleep, she corrects me.

What brought this on? I ask moving to the other side of the bathroom to clean the second countertop. I spray down the surface and start the water running in the sink.

He was still hard when you two came out of the bathroom. One, who has stamina like that, and two, I never knew Richard was so hung.

Richard is well-endowed. His dick is something to be appreciated, and how he works you over, maybe even worshipped.

Anyway, I’m on a break.

Again.

Ray has been dating John for about five years, since they were in high school. Their relationship is so open it’s damn near non-existent.

Yeah, he went back to his bitch, baby-mama, Ray says.

How do you even consider the two of you together? He’s been living with that woman over a year.

Yeah, but he always come home, Ray says. There’s no mistaking the ownership in her voice.

It’s up to Richard if he wants to sleep…fuck you, I say.

Yeah, but Richard’s not my girl. Anyhow, I got my answer bitch.

I’m not offended. Bitch to Ray might as well be: my sweetest love.

You know I don’t care, I say, but Ray’s right. If it wasn’t a big deal I would have co-signed immediately instead of going through this song and dance.

I know, but you and Richard have been playing your own version of musical chairs for a while now.

True that, I agree.

Are you going out tonight? Ray asks, changing the subject.

You?

Let’s not play that game. I’ll pick you up at eight. And with that, she hangs up.

I finish with the countertop and move on to the dreaded shower. Maybe it’s time for me and Richard to stop playing musical chairs. He’s fun to be around, has a sweet personality, and is handsome enough. I call him.

What’s up, Red, he says.

I can hear the smile on his face. I’m powerless not to smile, too. Want to go out tonight?

With you, always.

You want to get ready at my house?

I do. Within the two words I see his smile transform from his usual devil-may-care grin, to the big bad wolf, the better to eat you with one.

Great, I’ll pick you up at four,

I’ll be waiting.

I hang up the phone with renewed energy. Four hours with Richard. I might not have the energy to dance tonight.

**-**

Daydreaming has been my escape for as long as I remember. If I’m not otherwise engaged in anything that takes much brain matter, I’m daydreaming. I daydream about what my life would have been like if I’d made different choices. I daydream about what my life will be like in the future. I daydream about sitting in a Paris café when the man of my dreams walks up and we begin falling in love. It’s what gets me through day after day of a life that is plain and ordinary. I’ve had a boyfriend almost every day since I was twelve years old. They dump me and within hours I have a new one lined up. Like a lot of women, I become the woman each man wants me to be. If he likes Susie-Q homemaker, I’m your girl. Or someone that hangs out and stay up all night…that’s me. But most important, I’m a dynamo in the bed. There is nothing off limits. In the beginning it was my attempt to get the boys and men to like me more, but I’ll admit I enjoy it. Oh, I still use sex to become the ideal girlfriend but I love it too. Why shouldn’t I?

Today is a phenomenon. I’m off. No regular nine to five and no side gig, just me, cup after cup of coffee, a library book and music playing at near deafening levels in my headphones. It’s been a week since the exit of Ben and the entrance of Richard again. He’s been staying over most nights. Richard lives with his grandmother. Another reason I’m holding out on making him the one. He’s twenty-five years old and lives with his grandmother. It’s not promising.

Richard’s most recent job is working at the dollar store about a mile away. He walked to work. I appreciate and admire that he didn’t ask to borrow my car. He’s never asked me for money and always pays for things when we go out. Not that I’m an expensive date, and if we ever go anywhere that requires more than fifty bucks we’ll have to go Dutch but money means very little to me. I don’t have to work side jobs cleaning houses, I do it to have extra and if the right one comes along I’m sure I won’t give two shits about money. If he worships me, if I consume him, that’s good enough for me. Besides, I’ve never been one of those girls who needed or wanted a man to pay their bills. It gives me vapors just thinking about being that dependent on a man. As much as I love them, I can’t stand the thought of not taking care of myself. I have enough experience to know I can’t depend on anyone but me.

I’m not sure what I’m most lost in: the book or the music. Craig Armstrong’s, Piano Works, is the perfect pairing for paranormal romance. I’m two chapters in when the house phone rings. It’s the same number that I passed out in junior high. It’s damn near the same phone. I pick up the pea-green receiver pulling the base along with it because the spiral cord is tangled.

Hello.

Is it alright if I bring some people through, Richard asks.

Sure thing, I answer. I’m not particularly a people person but I aim to please. I stand up, ready to become the hostess with the mostest. When will you get here?

Around eight.

I pick up my cell to check the time. It’s five, plenty of time to straighten the house and make a run to the store for beer and party foods.

See you then.

Word, Richard says, and hangs up.

I haven’t been to the store in ages and the fridge and cabinets reflect the neglect. We’ve been living off burgers and chicken when we crawl out of bed. I slip on a pair of jeans, brush my hair, grab my wallet and keys and head for the door. I call Ray when I’m pulling out of my driveway.

Party at my house tonight, I say before she speaks.

Cool, what time?

Eight.

I’ll be there.

The grocery store is the largest part of a run-down strip of stores that includes a laundry mat so filthy I’m pretty sure your clothes are dirtier when you leave, a small store that sells mainly candy, chips, and sodas and a beauty supply store own by Asians and filled to the brim with not only, every hair necessities known to mankind, but cheap clothes and shoes. The parking lot is filled with pot-holes and the lines that marked the spaces have all faded away. The windows of the stores are covered with bars because directly behind the shopping center is low income housing. The neighborhood is a high crime area. I wouldn’t go in it without someone from the neighborhood, and someone tough at that.

The grocery store is cold enough to hang meat in, an attempt to hide a smell that could be moldy meat or old mop water. I wouldn’t buy anything not in a can or frozen in the joint. I pull free a shopping cart and head for the chip aisle. Next is the cooler section, where I throw in a couple of cases of beer and a few frozen pizzas and I’m done. The girl at the check-out weave is busted. The tracks are visible, the texture of the synthetic hair is silky straight but the girl’s hair is true black-folks hair. It’s nappy. And the colors don’t match. She’s not a bad looking girl, a little older than me. When she smiles she has gold caps on most of her top teeth. I wonder why on earth that would ever seem like a good idea to anyone. It’s like setting yourself up for failure. Who in the hell, but the local