Page 35 of Long Way Down

With unsteady movements, vibrating in time with the furious thrashing of her pulse, she snatched up her plate and went to scrape its contents into the trash.

Hands gripped her wrists, halting her before she could push the rice and beef off into the can, and she reeled back; snatched herself free and put distance between herself and her assailant.

The plate hit the linoleum with a bong, and a roll, and a clatter. Rice and beef and broccoli florets littered the floor.

“Melissa.”

It took her a moment to register his use of her name, and when she lifted her head, she wished she hadn’t. The worry mixed with pity stamped on his normally-youthful face was the last thing she wanted from him.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Slowly, like she was a spooked animal he was trying not to agitate further, he squatted down and picked up the plate; scraped as much of the food back onto it as he could with the dropped fork. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay.”

“Stop that.” She squatted down, too, heart racing, and tried to take over.

His grip was firm on the plate, though. “I got it. You could get some paper towels.”

“Shut up. Don’t tell me what to do.” But there was no bite to her words, and she went to dampen paper towels at the sink and returned to wipe up the rice grains he’d missed. After, she washed her hands, while the silence stretched. He hovered by the island, quiet, as she turned off the tap, and dried her hands. Thoroughly. For too long. Until the skin on the backs felt raw.

“Hey,” he said, right beside her.

She hadn’t heard him move. She gripped the edge of the counter, arms straining against the urge to strike out, to slap or shove him. To fight, and claw, and get away.

Had Ivy fought? Melissa didn’t know. She hadn’t been there.

“Dixie,” he said, and the little kernel of anger that bloomed each time he used that nickname gave her the strength to get hold of herself. She bottled all her momentary panic and turned a nasty glare on him.

To which he smiled. “Ah, there she is.”

“Therewhois?”

“The side of you who wants to pretend you hate me.”

They didn’tdothis. Didn’t talk about anything real. It had only ever been crude inuendo and insistence on his part, some bad flirting and some, admittedly, damn good kisses that led to damn good other things. But he didn’t stand before her like this, smiling almost sadly, looking like he wanted something real instead of whatever the hell they had.

“I–” The words died on her tongue. She wasn’t averse to cruelty, but she wasn’t a liar, in general…except for when she lied to him. About the nickname, about wanting him around, about his visits being the highlight of her week every time.

She couldn’t sayI do hate you.

What shecoulddo was launch herself at him, so she did.

He gave a quietmmphof surprise when she surged up, gripped the open halves of his cut with both hands, and slammed her mouth against his. For a moment, while he processed her sudden change in mood, she had the upper hand. Was the hunter, the pursuer – she had chosen this, him, the setting. She was the initiator, and in a part of her mind that doubtless needed plumbing by an expert, that made all the difference for her.

Because here was the cold, bitter truth of Melissa Dixon: she wasn’t an aggressive person. Might have even been a submissive person.Pissy Missy.Curious, but the follower rather than the leader. Opinionated, but content to keep her opinions to herself unless called upon. After that summer when she was six, after what happened in the swamp, she’d gritted her teeth and set about making herself assertive. Had pushed back hard against every instinct, every natural inclination. It had served her well in school, at the academy, and in the precinct.

It had turned her into a person that others called a bitch under their breath, when they thought she couldn’t hear.

Doomed to be a doormat or a harpy. The women in her world had never been allowed to land anywhere in the middle. She’d cloaked herself in a hard persona.

Sex was something she sought because she wanted it, and outside advances were eschewed. Safter not to trust what she really wanted; safer to be the chaser rather than the chased. Anyone who could see past her prickly exterior must be less of a threat than a man who thought her weak and easily manipulated, she’d always reasoned. A man who didn’t mind her blunt, emotionless approach couldn’t be all that forceful, she’d thought.

Even if that was what she wanted, deep down. Even if she wantedso badlyto go soft and giving and let someone hungry do the taking.

That was her truth, and that was the magic of Pongo, whatever the hell his real name was. The Lean Dog in the leather cut with the incongruously cute face and curly hair, the freckles, the lazy grins and frat boy flirting was a façade for the person he became in the bedroom.

It had frightened her, a little, the first time.

Sheneededit right now.