Beginning Again Ch. 01

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While on parole, Mac ends up with a mysterious young woman.
6.3k words
4.67
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Part 1 of the 6 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 12/04/2015
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North200
North200
476 Followers

Author's note:

I expect this to be a longer piece – maybe six or seven chapters. All characters are fictional adults. Your feedback is welcome and gratefully accepted. Thank you for reading.

**

Mac paced the tiny, one-room apartment. The rubber soles of his wet sneakers squealed against the faded linoleum floor in the kitchenette and left soggy tracks on the thin carpet of the bedroom area. The heavy rain had soaked his jeans and t-shirt clear through; they clung to him like a clammy second skin. He barely noticed the chill through the pain of a crushing headache.

He stopped briefly next to the window and pulled the stained curtains aside just enough to peer down at the street three stories below.

No cops. Not yet, anyway.

He resumed his pacing. His skull felt like it was splitting down the centre and he pressed his thumbs into his temples. He had to think. He just needed a few minutes to figure it all out.

He passed the couch. The girl. She was shivering violently. Sobbing. Rainwater plastered her long, black hair and a thin white shift against her skin. Scrapes on her knees and elbows left traces of blood on the linen. She lay curled on her side, eyes closed, whimpering.

"Shh. Be quiet, it's okay," he said, trying to sound soothing and realizing how insane that was. She had every reason to be terrified. Her crying continued unabated.

He crossed to the door of the apartment, checked that the lock was set, the deadbolt secured. Now what to do? Find a weapon, maybe? He hurried back to the window and peeked past the curtain. Still no cops. Rain coming down in sheets.

The pain in his head caused a brief wave of nausea to break over him. He found the plastic pill bottle on the floor and ripped off the cap. Still empty. How had he gone through a hundred Tylenol in just two weeks? He considered making another run to the drugstore but it was past curfew; he didn't want to fuck up his parole. Not after seven years inside. He looked back at the girl and realized his problems were likely bigger than breach of parole.

He staggered back to the girl, dropped to his knees in front of the couch.

"There's blood...are you hurt?" he asked. When she didn't answer he grabbed her right wrist and tried to peel her arm away from her ribcage, doing his best to ignore the way the wet cotton was see-through in places. He was just checking her for injury, after all. Nothing indictable. Her wrist was bone-thin and felt fragile in his hand. He noticed then that his knuckles were cut, throbbing and weeping blood.

She squeaked and pulled her arm back against her chest, curled tighter into a defensive ball, eyes squeezed shut.

"Don't hurt me, please! Just...just let me go. Please." her voice was a teary whisper soaked in desperation.

Let her go? No, no chance of that. Not until he could explain, make her see that this was all just a huge fuck-up. Nothing criminal. Nothing the cops needed to know about, that's for damn sure. He'd find a way to make her understand.

But first, he needed to remember. He started pacing again and tried to fight through the raging agony in his head. Tried to piece things together.

He'd made instant soup and white toast for dinner. Planned for an early night so he could start his job search at the break of dawn the next morning. Got another headache but found he had no pills left. The pain was bad enough that he'd run for the drugstore just at the edge of curfew. He remembered leaving his apartment just as the sky started to dump rain. Then...

Then...

Then nothing. Just a blank space where his memory should be. And then he'd found himself climbing the stairs to his apartment with a semi-conscious young woman slung over his shoulder.

He squeezed his head with his hands. The pressure dulled the pain just a little. Too little. It hurt to think. He swore and kicked a rickety kitchen chair, launching it across the room where it bashed a dinner plate-sized hole in the thin plaster wall. It felt good to hit something. Really good. He turned back to the girl.

"Look, let's go to bed...try to figure this out in the morning," he said, not sure if he was speaking to her or just thinking out loud.

"No...please...I won't tell. Just let me go."

He watched her shiver for a moment, wondering if terror or wet clothes were more responsible. He squeezed his head tighter. What would it take for this shitty evening to be over at last?

"Take that off. I'll get you dry clothes," he said, turning to his battered particle-board dresser.

"No! Please don't..."

"Take it off!" He roared, more forcefully than he intended.

Why was she making this difficult? Change into dry clothes, then sleep. Somehow this would all make sense in the morning. The pain made him want to puke.

She slowly peeled off the sopping shift. Her eyes were wide now, staring past him like he wasn't there. He threw a t-shirt and some track pants onto the couch next to her, then turned away. The sight of a young woman undressing held no allure for him when his pain was so overwhelming.

He walked to the tiny bathroom and ransacked it, looking for any Tylenol he might have forgotten he had. None.

He stripped off his sneakers, socks, shirt and jeans. His briefs were damp from the rain but he decided to leave them on. Didn't want to be totally naked if the cops burst into the apartment and found him with a girl who didn't want to be there. They wouldn't even need a warrant; it was one of the conditions of his parole.

Stepping back into the main room, his eyes were drawn to the naked young woman cringing in front of the couch trying to hide herself behind her skinny arms. The wet shift sat in a lump at her feet. Her terrified eyes stared at the wall just to the left of him. For several moments they both stood in silence.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"You said...dry clothes..."

They stared at each other for another few seconds. Was she an idiot?

"Right there!" He gestured to the couch. She continued to stare in his direction. He was almost at his limit. He clenched his fists. Tried to remember his anger management. Breathe. Count.

She looked at him uncomprehending for a moment longer, then crouched, uncovered her small breasts and began to tentatively run her hand over the floor to the front and sides of her.

She was blind?

He took a deep breath and pressed his palms into his eyeballs. He didn't care. He just wanted to be unconscious. He'd deal with it – somehow – in the morning.

"On the couch. To your left," he said.

When he took his hands away from his eyes a minute later she was dressed. He walked up to her and grabbed her arm firmly just under her shoulder. She was so thin that his hand almost fully encircled her upper arm. She tried to pull back but he was having none of it and was much stronger than she was. He roughly guided her to the edge of his single bed until her knees bumped the mattress, then pulled the sheet and comforter down.

"Lie down."

"I...don't want..."

"Don't say another goddamn word. Just lie down and close your eyes." His voice was a harsh whisper. The agony between his temples was too intense. If he didn't sleep soon he'd have to put his fist through something. Or someone.

He watched as she lowered herself onto the mattress and curled into a tight ball, then he flipped the blankets over her.

Trudging back to the couch, he paused to kick her soggy, balled-up shift off the carpet and onto the ugly linoleum of the kitchenette, then he thew himself down onto the couch. He didn't care that it was damp. He didn't care that it was rough against his skin, or that it smelled musty. He didn't even care that it was a half a foot too short for a man of his height. He closed his eyes and breathed and counted and focused on unclenching his jaw. It didn't happen fast, but eventually he found sleep.

**

The sound of breaking glass brought him suddenly awake. He was on his feet even before he'd found his bearings. Sunlight tried to force its way through two large, dirty windows. The pain in his head had dulled but not vanished; it still throbbed in his temples. Not much of a reprieve but he welcomed it nonetheless.

The young woman was on her feet too, near the kitchenette, rooted to the spot with a terrified look on her face. Fragments of a broken drinking glass, knocked off the counter, lay scattered at her bare feet. His track pants and t-shirt looked almost comically over-sized on her tiny frame.

He sighed. A new day had arrived. Now to see if he could endure it.

"Don't move," he said, his voice gravelly.

"I'm sorry. I just need to use the bathroom. I can clean it up," she said, dropping into a crouch.

"Don't move!" he said, now with more annoyance. She froze. Jesus, nothing was ever easy.

He pulled on some old jeans and a white undershirt and then approached her, careful not to put his bare feet down on broken glass. In one easy motion he lifted her into his arms, then carefully stepped to the bathroom door. She weighed next to nothing and the warmth of her thin body in his arms felt good. Human contact in prison had been rare and unwelcome. He kicked last night's wet clothes out of the way before setting her on her feet again.

"Toilet's on your right. There's a shower if you want. Dry towel on the wall rack," he said, then pulled the door shut as he left.

As he carefully swept the linoleum and carpet for glass shards, Mac tried to figure out what he was going to do with the girl. She was blind. She couldn't identify him. Maybe he could walk her down to a coffee shop and just leave her there. It wasn't like he had hurt her or anything – not that he remembered, anyway. No reason for her to involve the cops. He'd only abducted her, refused to let her leave, then made her take her clothes off in front of him.

Fuck. His parole officer wouldn't be amused.

He decided to make breakfast for his unwilling guest. Instant coffee, canned soup and some toast with margarine. Sit her down. Explain things. She seemed a reasonable type – she wasn't screaming or hysterical. And he had a little money he'd earned in prison. Not lots, but maybe enough to smooth things over. It could work.

He heard the shower running. That had to be a good sign. If she was really freaked out she wouldn't be having a shower, he reasoned. A hot shower and a hot breakfast would have her seeing things his way. So to speak.

By the time her shower ended he'd boiled the kettle and had vegetable soup simmering on the stove. He pushed the bread down into the toaster. It was buttered and sliced when the bathroom door opened. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to force himself into the role of a nice guy. He wished his head would stop aching for a damn second so he could focus.

He stepped up to her and grabbed her elbow gently. She flinched at he contact but didn't try to pull away. "Come and sit down. What do you take in your coffee?" He tried to make his voice soft and non-threatening.

He steered her to the tiny table near the kitchenette and got her seated.

"Sugar," she said in a quiet voice. Her expression was guarded, her eyes followed his sounds as he moved through the room. She seemed tense and nervous but no longer terrified, probably figuring that if he intended to do something horrible to her, he'd have done it already.

He stirred the sugar into her coffee, pushed the mug into her hand, slid the toast in front of her and invited her to eat. He felt relieved when she took a bite of toast. All according to plan so far. She finished one slice and then another, alternating bites with sips of coffee. She seemed hungry.

Her damp, black hair fell over her shoulders in loose curls. A tan complexion suggested Hispanic or Latino roots. In her early twenties, maybe. She had pretty, dark eyes, although he could see in them a weariness that suggested life hadn't been easy on her. Her body was well-proportioned but too thin; she looked fragile and undernourished.

"There's soup too," he said, "And if you want more toast just say so."

She nodded, then was silent for a few more mouthfuls.

"What's your name?" she said at last.

"My name?" He trailed off as he weighed his options. If she knew his name she could identify him. Should he refuse? Give a fake name? Change the subject?

"You don't have to say if you don't want," she said.

He sighed.

"Call me Mac," he said, figuring it was a good blend of truth and evasiveness.

"I'm Nadja."

"Nice to meet you."

She just nodded and didn't say another word as he pushed the soup in front of her and pressed a spoon into her hand. She took her time with the soup, seemingly lost in thought. He rinsed her plate and coffee mug, then poured himself black coffee and downed it in hasty, bitter mouthfuls. He tried to think of something to say to break the awkward silence but couldn't figure out which direction to take the conversation. In the end he decided that silence was better than saying the wrong thing in a situation like this.

Finally she finished and left the spoon in the empty bowl.

"More?" he asked.

She shook her head. He grabbed the bowl and rinsed it. She broke the silence.

"So...what happens next?" Her tone was careful.

He hadn't figured that part out yet. His mind worked furiously, intensifying his headache.

"Well," he said slowly, "next, I let you go. I can get you a cab to take you wherever you want."

She regarded him silently. If she felt relieved, her neutral expression didn't show it.

"And...I figure maybe I could give you something to make up for the...trouble...of last night. Money, I mean. I never meant any harm. I get these headaches...they make me kind of bad-tempered sometimes."

She didn't respond, just stared in his direction. Her expression remained unreadable.

He cursed inwardly – she wasn't giving him much to go on. Should he name a figure, or wait for her to suggest a good price? If he named one she might get insulted if it was too low. But her silence suggested that she wanted him to go first. What would be a good amount? Two hundred dollars? More? Fuck!

"I want to stay," she said softly.

The request was so insane that it took a few moments for the meaning to register. Stay? With him?

"You can't stay," he said, "besides, last night you wanted to leave."

"Last night I thought you were going to kill me."

"Look, I can give you some money to get where you need to go..."

"I don't have anywhere to go," she said in a quiet voice.

Was that how she ended up outside in the pouring rain last night, dressed in a slip? Her old man threw her out? Maybe she had a bust-up with her boyfriend? But how did she end up draped over HIS shoulder at the end of it all?

"I can get you to a women's shelter. They'll get you back on your feet. Get you in touch with the police."

"I can't go to a shelter, or the police. I'm..not a citizen. They'd just deport me." Her tone was pleading, not defiant; she wasn't arguing with him.

If she couldn't go to the cops, that changed things. Gave him a better bargaining position. Maybe, somehow, he could make all this go away? It was almost too much to hope for.

"You're not staying," he said again, trying to filter the irritation out of his voice, "I'll give you some money, get you a cab. You go patch things up with your husband or whatever. It isn't my problem. I'm in way over my head as it is."

"I won't be in the way."

He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, then pressed his thumbs into his temples.

"If you stay here, I'll end up hurting you bad," he said in quiet, measured tones, "not by choice. I'd never hit a woman; I'm not like that. But things build up. It gets too much and...I just can't handle it."

"I can help you."

"I just got out of prison. Seven years inside. This really isn't a good place for you."

"But...I can't see," she said, "and I have no place to go. No family, no friends. Please..."

"I'd like to help you but there's really nothing I can do other than give you some money, help you get someplace safe."

"Please! I'll do anything."

The conversation wasn't going as planned. Just one fucking thing after another! He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. He realized his fists were clenched and deliberately relaxed them. The throbbing pain was intensifying, the pressure building inside his skull.

"I'm going out for some Tylenol," he growled, "you can stay here for a few hours, get yourself together. Then I'm calling you a cab." He ignored her pleas as he slid his bare feet into wet sneakers and threw on a black hoodie. Without another word he grabbed his wallet and left.

What a fucking mess.

The cool late-autumn air felt good against his face. He walked slowly and focused on the anger management he'd learned in counseling. Breathe. Count. Relax his muscles. It didn't get rid of the pain, but it kept it from getting worse.

His first stop was the drugstore. He grabbed two giant-sized bottles of extra-strength capsules and swallowed three pills while he was waiting in the checkout line. He vowed never to run out of them again. They were a lifeline.

On the way back to the apartment he stopped at the bank machine and withdrew three-hundred dollars. Nineteen-hundred dollars were all that remained of the earnings from his job at the prison laundry. Finding a job – almost impossible given his criminal record - was becoming more urgent by the day. Not only did he need the income, but finding employment was one of the conditions of his parole.

He didn't need any distractions or complications getting in the way, and certainly didn't need another mouth to feed. Was it cruel to throw a blind girl out into the street? Yes...there was no denying that. But better that than to let her stay and make her a victim of his temper. She was safer somewhere else.

His headache had mercifully receded by the time he reached the door to his apartment. He paused and took several deep breaths. Unclenched his jaw. Relax, he whispered to himself. Relax. Stay calm, get through this. Don't let it get ugly. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

His eyes fell immediately on Nadja.

She stood waiting for him in the middle of the room. Naked. Her hands were behind her back, her feet shoulder-width apart; nothing was hidden from him. Dark eyes. Smooth skin. Small breasts with dark nipples. The faint outline of ribs visible under the skin. A flat stomach and narrow hips that framed a shaved slit. Skinny legs. Lovely.

"What..." he started but his throat closed and cut off the words. He stood rooted in place, unable to move. His heart hammered as lust – dormant seven years – surged through him. He was hard fast.

Nadja's eyes found his face and she stepped in the direction of his voice

"I don't think you understand," she said as she took a second step toward him, "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stay. Whatever you need." She lowered herself to her knees in front of him. Her fingers quickly found and undid the button on his jeans, unzipped him. Then his pants were around his ankles and her warm hands had freed his cock from his briefs. Without preamble she slid it into her mouth.

He gasped as hot wetness enveloped him, and again when he felt her tongue stroking the underside of his shaft. The sensations overwhelmed him and he couldn't find his words. He knew what this was – she was trying to play him, trying to lead him around by his dick. It was working.

He felt powerful as she knelt naked at his feet and sucked him. She was clearly no stranger to oral sex; she used her lips and tongue expertly. His orgasm was closing fast and the idea of flooding her mouth with his cum spiked his arousal even more.

Nadja pulled back, held his cock in her hand and dipped her mouth lower. He felt her tongue on his balls, hot breath on his inner thighs. She took a long, slow lick up the length of his cock then ran her wet tongue along the underside of the head. Mac felt lightheaded; he could hear his own ragged breathing.

North200
North200
476 Followers
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