Sleeping with the Frenemy Read online

  “I really screwed up and I don't know how,” Bridgette muttered as she threw a ball into the yard. Rotquel jumped up and went after it, returning with the ball in her mouth and dropping it at Bridgette's feet.

  “Good girl,” Bridgette complimented Rotquel, who wagged her tail and let out a deep woof. She smiled as Rotquel ran after a squirrel.

  Her cell phone beeped. A text message from Bryan popped up, asking her to meet him for lunch. She sighed, not answering him right away. She wasn't in the mood for company unless it was Sharon.

  Sharon, the nervous and very frightened woman Bridgette couldn't stop thinking about. Now that she had her taste on her tongue, she wanted more, but didn't know how to go about doing it since Sharon had run away from her with fear and loathing in her eyes.

  Something was off with Sharon and had been since the moment she met her. After thinking about the woman nonstop, Bridgette had come to some conclusions about her new neighbor.

  Sharon wasn't comfortable around large groups of people, preferred to be alone, and jumped every time someone touched her. A few times, even when they'd kissed, Sharon trembled, not necessarily in passion but almost in fear or in anxiety—as if she expected Bridgette to hurt her.

  Someone must have damaged Sharon very badly, to the point where she jumped at shadows. The signs were all there. Sharon had been a victim of abuse, either rape or molestation, at the hands of someone she'd trusted.

  Knowing her touch dredged up those nightmarish memories for Sharon sickened her incredibly. Maybe that was why Sharon had moved to Woodberry Creek, to escape whoever had done it to her. Perhaps a marriage gone sour? The tan line on her left ring finger led Bridgette to believe Sharon's husband, or perhaps her wife, was the culprit.

  Bridgette dropped her drawing pad on the table and stood. She whistled to Rotquel, who came running, and they went back inside. As she walked inside the kitchen, she spotted the pad she had used to slide a note under Sharon's front door, apologizing for what had happened on Saturday night. Six days later she still hadn't heard from her, even after knocking multiple times on Sharon's front door.

  Bridgette couldn't stand it when people were upset with her, even if it was her fault. Yet another one of her quirks in a long list of ones she always wanted to work on but never did.

  Pacing the kitchen, she came to a decision. She wouldn't allow Sharon to hide and ignore her. Bridgette was a woman of action and refused to let Sharon walk out of her life.

  Bridgette slapped her hands together with a new plan and smiled. She pulled back her shoulders, fluffed her hair, and stomped out into the living room and over to the front door. She'd walk across the street and pound on Sharon's door until she opened it.

  Right at that moment, a figure dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt and wearing a blue baseball cap, pulling a rolling suitcase and holding a bag, walked down the front steps of Sharon's house.

  “What the hell?” Bridgette asked herself.

  Bridgette moved to the side so she wasn't seen through the window. Rotquel sat beside her, wagging her tail, ready to climb up on the window sill when Bridgette shushed her. For once Rotquel listened.

  “Why is Sharon dressed like that?” Bridgette asked under her breath and shared a look with Rotquel, who tilted her head to the side and whimpered softly.

  Sharon glanced up and down the street, tipped her head down, and walked away. Bridgette didn't know what was going on and why Sharon was dressed like a boy and with those bags, but she planned to find out. She had a funny feeling Sharon might be leaving town.

  Quickly grabbing her house keys and pulling on her sunglasses, she locked her front door and followed Sharon at a distance as she made her way toward the center of town.

  * * * *

  Sweat poured down Deborah's back from the sun as she read through the train schedule brochures. Her hair was plastered to her head and her legs felt like insects were running all over them from being encased in her denim jeans. Soon she would be on a nice air-conditioned train to—

  To where? That was the big question at the moment.

  Looking up from her reading, Deborah leaned back against the brick wall of the station. She could go inside where it was cool as she decided on her next destination, or head over to the Internet café one last time. Maybe then she'd also give her mother a call before she disappeared.

  Sighing, she hiked her bag up higher around her shoulder and pulled her suitcase along. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of her face and she kicked a stone, wishing she was in her kitchen with the overhead fan twirling above her head as she got ready to paint the room.

  But that would never happen. She ruined everything by freaking out on Bridgette.

  Sweet, amazingly kind, and innocent Bridgette, who just wanted to give her pleasure.

  Deborah's eyes went blurry and she turned her face to wipe it against her shoulder as she walked, passing people without saying hello. No one said anything to her in return. To them she was a stranger again, not worthy of their regard.

  A refreshing breeze brushed over her face as she went inside the café. Other than the servers behind the counter, no one sat at tables or ordered coffee drinks. Deborah scanned the drink menu as the bell above the door jingled. She barely gave any notice until she spotted flaming red hair and that slight citrus smell she associated with Bridgette.

  When a soft body pushed up against her back, she closed her eyes and inhaled slowly to stop her now-racing heart.

  “Hello, Sharon. Or is that even your real name?” Bridgette asked softly, an undertone of irritation coloring her voice.

  Deborah pulled off her hat and faced an incensed Bridgette.

  The moment of truth had arrived.

  * * * *

  The iced coffee soothed her dry mouth and throat. She and Bridgette sat on a bench in the park under a group of trees that shaded them from the sun and the late morning heat.

  “I sure do love hazelnut coffee.” Bridgette slipped the straw into her mouth and sipped.

  Deborah remained silent as she drank, noticing the short distance between them as Bridgette sat too far away, near the corner of the bench as she faced front.

  Placing her plastic cup in between her legs, Deborah flicked her straw. “I'm sorry for the way I reacted Saturday night when we…were at your house.”

  “You shouldn't be the one apologizing. I should. I never meant to force you or make you do something—”

  “No. It's not that at all.” Deborah looked at Bridgette. “I'm to blame. I…I had a flashback that made me act the way I did.” Deborah placed her hand on Bridgette's arm, and when Bridgette didn't push her hand away, she relaxed.

  “Were you raped?” Bridgette asked bluntly.

  Deborah flinched from the question. She cleared her throat, taking another sip of her drink. “I'm not sure if you would call it rape. My wife used to—”

  “Your wife?” Bridgette interrupted, clearly troubled by the reaction on her face.

  Deborah wiped her palms over her cheeks. She grimaced when they came away damp with her sweat, and she smeared them on her jeans. “It's probably best if I start from the beginning.”

  When Bridgette nodded for her to continue, she shifted in her seat and leaned her elbows on her knees. She'd treat this as if she was telling a story about another person and not herself. That was the only way she'd be able to get through it.

  “You're right about my name. It's not Sharon. My real name is Deborah. The reason I'm going by a fake name is that I've run away from my wife. I had no choice after four years of being abused by her.”

  “Where do you come from…Deb-Deborah?” Bridgette stumbled over her name.

  “Nevada, three hours outside Las Vegas,” Deborah responded and glanced at Bridgette. She sat on the bench with her one leg on the seat. She moved in closer and her knee brushed against the side of Deborah's leg.

  “When you mean abuse, do you mean physical, or more the sexual kind?” Bridgette asked softly.

 
; “A combination of both. My wife was into kinky things, such as using toys and bondage. Most of the times I was tied up or played the victim. My wife didn't like to lose control, so I always took on the role of the submissive while she was dominant. While we were dating, our lovemaking was typical, but then when we got married, things change. My wife wanted to push the envelope. She also grew jealous and possessive. A few times…” Deborah covered her trembling mouth. “More than a few times I've been on the end of her rage, and I had my share of bruises and cuts.”

  “Oh, Deborah.” Bridgette rested her hand on top of Debora's folded ones. “How did you hook up with this horrible woman, and why did you stay with her after so many years of abuse?”

  Deborah snorted. “I started working for Gen—that's my wife—by taking care of her terminally ill mother. I'd just finished nursing school. I was hired as a personal nurse through an agency.” Deborah smiled softly in memory of the first time she met Genevieve. “Gen was this older, classy, and stunning woman and I was awed by her. She reminded me of those actresses from old-time Hollywood movies. There I was, some young kid with barely any experience working for a very rich family. It should have come as no surprise when Gen became interested in me personally, I fell for her. Three months after I started working for her, we had an affair. I fell in love with her soon after.”

  “Sounds like a fairytale come to life,” Bridgette said sarcastically and Deborah laughed.

  “More like a deranged fairy tale toward the end.” Deborah swallowed and continued. “We kept things quiet since I was her mother's caregiver. Then six months later, her mother passed away. Afterward, Gen asked me to marry her. I thought I had found the love of my life. The first couple months of my marriage were wonderful, but then it started to go downhill. Gen cut me off from my old friends, saying they were using me to get to her. She became suspicious whenever I went out and didn't tell her. Then she started accusing me of cheating on her with other women.” Deborah swallowed nervously. “That's when it got really bad. The fights between us, or rather the ‘arguments,’ as Gen preferred to call them, became heated to the point where Gen would hit and scratch me.”

  “Oh Deborah…” Bridgette rested her palm on her face. Deborah rubbed her cheek against it.

  “I-I've seen married couples get physical before,” Deborah said. “My parents had an unstable relationship. My father had a temper and took it out on my mother. When I was ten, they got a divorce, and a few years later he died. I don't have fond memories of him,” she admitted, her voice shaking.

  “They say the cycle can continue with children who come from an abusive home,” Bridgette said softly.

  Deborah placed her hand over Bridgette's and gave her a sad smile. “I'm a perfect example of that, it seems.”

  “What made you finally leave?”

  “This isn't the first time I left Gen. A little more than two years into our marriage, I'd had enough. We had a big blowup that ended with me getting a sprained wrist and a fat lip. While Gen was away on a business trip, I left and moved in with my mother. Around that time may mother started to grow ill. I thought I could take care of her and get a nursing job again. Silly me didn't think of the lengths Gen would go to get me back. I couldn't get a job at any of the local hospitals or doctor's offices. Plus, wherever I was, Gen would be. She pleaded, begging me to come back. I almost folded a few times. But then my mother became very sick and was admitted into the hospital. She needed to be someplace where she could be monitored closely. My mother's savings weren't enough, and I didn't have any money either. I had no other options and when Gen offered to pay my mother's bills and for her care, I went back to her. Things were fine for a while, but then it started up again. I couldn't leave this time. She started threatening my—my mother.” Deborah hugged herself as she walked over to the tree and rested the side of her face against it.

  When Bridgette came up from behind and wrapped her arms around her, resting her cheek against her back, Deborah released a shaky sigh.

  “The second time I left, which was a few weeks ago, Gen had accused me of having an affair with the pool girl. She was so angry,” Deborah whispered and sniffed as tears fell down her cheeks. “We had just celebrated our four-year wedding anniversary the night before. As I lay on the floor, bruised and crying, it finally hit me I couldn't live like that any longer. My mother doesn't have much longer to live. So, after a year of saving money and selling jewelry and secretly planning in case I had to leave, along with the help of Gen's servants, whom I trusted, I pretended to kill myself and traveled hundreds of miles across the country. Now here I am, ready to hop on another train and disappear again.”

  “Please don't leave me.” Bridgette sounded miserable.

  Deborah turned around, wiping her tears. Bridgette was crying as well. Deborah smiled and thumbed away Bridgette's tears falling down her cheeks.

  “I have to. I don't trust myself. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid Gen will be there. If she finds out I'm alive, she'll want me dead.”

  “She'll have to get through me first,” Bridgette announced and wrapped her arms around Deborah's neck and kissed her. Startled, Deborah landed back against the rough bark of the tree as she held Bridgette, wanting to stay like this forever and never let her go.

  When Bridgette stopped the kiss, she cupped Deborah's face, her eyes bright. “You're no longer alone. You have me now. My family can protect you.” A frown marred Bridgette's face. “Unless you think I'm like your wife—”

  “No!” Deborah said loudly and squeezed Bridgette's shoulders. “You're the complete opposite of my wife. From the moment I met her, she was too dominant and needy. At first I found that exciting about her. Gen claimed me as one of her possessions, and look where it got me. With you it's the complete opposite. We're equals.”

  “Equals. I like the sound of that.” Bridgette nodded, looking pleased. When she lifted her face up toward her, Deborah gave her another kiss.

  Deborah wanted to continue kissing under the big elm tree with the branches and leaves that covered them from prying eyes. She longed to forget everything and just be with Bridgette, regardless of the danger. If Gen ever found out she was with someone else—

  “You're thinking too hard,” Bridgette said against her mouth. She moved her face down and against Deborah's throat.

  Running her fingers through Bridgette's curls, she curved an arm around her waist. “I can't help it. I'll never be able to rest my mind, knowing Gen is out there, suspecting I may have deceived her.”

  “Instead of running away to places unknown, where you'll have to start over again and constantly look over your shoulder, why don't you wait a few days more? I can talk with Bryan and my father for advice on your situation without telling them who you are. If they're aware a dangerous person maybe heading here to do one of our own harm, they'll take care of it.”

  “One of their own?” Deborah asked uncertain.

  Bridgette's lips tilted up and she took both of Deborah's hands in hers. “Yes, you're one of us, part of the community. I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe,” Bridgette added, her voice growing hard.

  Deborah wished she had half of Bridgette's strength and the belief that everything would turn out all right. She didn't, but kept that to herself. Instead, she'd do what Bridgette requested and enjoy the time they had together.

  If only she could get over the feeling she was being watched.

  Bridgette swiped a finger down Deborah's nose, where it was damp with sweat. “You know what? I think we should get out of this heat. You must be frying and I'm ready to wilt. How about we go back to my house where I can make you lunch and we can talk about our next move?”

  “Our next move?” Deborah asked and wiped her face. She grimaced as her hands came away wet. “I must smell rank. Maybe a shower first, then food?”

  Bridgette hopped lightly on her feet, her curls bobbing. Deborah would never get tired of seeing them. She reached out to wrap a curl around her finger. Brid
gette kissed her softly on her chin, and as Deborah went to give her a kiss on her mouth, she moved back.

  “Shower first, Miss Sweaty. Food, planning, then more kissing.” Bridgette's eyes twinkled.

  Deborah finally relaxed her shoulders; they'd been knotted for days. “Let's go home,” she said, and when they grabbed her bags and walked in the direction toward their street, she couldn't help but feel a pair of eyes watching her—even though she didn't notice anyone lurking around. She did her best to shrug away that feeling until they both were close enough to hear a familiar dog barking and to see the house that gave her a sense of belonging.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Deborah took a shower while Bridgette went back over to her house to check on Rotquel. After washing the grime and sweat away, she combed her hair and put on a different pair of underwear, khaki shorts, bra, and a loose-fitting pink tank top. She walked downstairs when she heard a knock on the front door and after looking through the peephole, she opened it. Bridgette stood on her porch holding two brown paper bags.

  “I was just going to come over,” Deborah replied and almost fumbled the bags as Bridgette passed them over to her.

  “I thought we could eat here instead.” Bridgette walked in, gave Deborah a quick kiss on the mouth, and tugged on the hem of her shirt. “Pink really looks good on you.”

  Swallowing a laugh, Deborah closed her front door. “I'd always like the color pink, but my wife hated it…sorry, you must be sick of hearing me talk about her.”

  Bridgette patted Deborah's cheek. “Unless you don't want to talk about her, I don't care. Remember, I'm here for you, to listen to what you have to say.”

  Deborah walked into the kitchen and put the bags on the table. She was still somewhat unnerved by the way Bridgette acted so calm about everything she'd told her. “You're too good to be true. Another woman would run far away from all the baggage I have.”