Page 65 of His Red Carnation

“I’m okay. My dad said some harsh stuff, but…I know he didn’t mean it. It’s just…” she trailed off, staring at the ceiling.

“What, baby?” I asked, taking her hand in mine.

She looked back at me and frowned. “The internet is saying a bunch of shitty things. About me, about you, about my dad. I know I shouldn’t look at that stuff but…I just don’t understand why any of this matters.” Her voice was small and weak, a tone I hadn’t heard from her much.

I sighed. My baby was smart, but she hadn’t yet realized how cruel the world could be.

“Don’t go on the internet, baby. Fuck ‘em,” I said, offering the weakest fucking advice, but she still smiled and nodded.

“Let’s hide out here for a while. Now that it’s out there, and I basically moved out, you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while.” She laughed, and she was back to my usual sweet girl.

I rolled over and onto my knees, then flung a leg over her so I could straddle her. I pinned her wrists against the bed and she bit her lip with a smile, eagerly waiting for whatever I was gonna do to her.

“Good. Now tell me all the things you liked about Daddy being rough with you, and I’ll do them all over again.”

27

Sloane

Over the next few days, my mom texted me constantly. She mentioned that Dad felt bad about what he’d said, but I needed to hear it from him directly—and there was nothing but radio silence on his end. Mom, though…she was supportive and caring, checking in on how I was doing and if I needed anything. She was the strongest person I knew, and knowing she was holding up gave me a sense of comfort amidst the chaos of the outside world.

And Callan—God, being around him 24/7 just reaffirmed that everything that had happened was worth it. He was trying to take care of me; he was cooking, running me baths, waiting on me hand and foot. We would laugh until the sun came up, we’d have sex all night, and we’d lounge around all day while I read or while we watched trashy reality shows. We were in the little bubble I had longed for and I never wanted to leave it.

I had no idea what the media was saying about us because I stayed off social media and the internet. The first night that it came out, I spent hours looking at articles about how Callan was a creep, how my dad was an idiot for hiring him, how I was this pure little innocent eighteen-year-old that didn’t know any better. It was infuriating, and I hated that it got to me so much. But now…now I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know if my dad had made any statements about the “scandal.” Dozens of texts poured in from old friends and family members, but I didn’t know how to respond. Some asked if I was okay; others wanted to know what on earth I was thinking. Eventually, I just silenced all notifications except for my mom’s.

And then there was Sarah—who was she, really, and why did she say those things about Callan? I was sure he hadn’t done what she accused him of, but there was still that tiny sliver of doubt, a whisper of uncertainty I couldn’t shake. I’d always been taught to believe women who spoke out about abuse, and it tore me apart to even consider the possibility that she might be telling the truth. Callan had admitted to blacking out when he drank—what if he’d done something in a fit of anger and just didn’t remember? Deep down, I knew that wasn’t who he was, but I also knew that alcohol or drugs could make people do unimaginable things. With a confusing mix of guilt and uncertainty weighing on me, I decided to ask my mom for help in contacting Sarah. I wasn’t even sure she’d speak to me, but I needed to try and hear her side. The idea of going behind Callan’s back made me feel sick, but I couldn’t figure out how to explain to him why I had to reach out to her.

I lay awake one night, next to a peacefully sleeping Callan, staring at the text my mom had sent with Sarah’s details:Sarah Jordan, Baltimore, 33. My mom understood why I needed to talk to her, though even she was cautious. Sarah was less than an hour away, and I could easily find her.Fuck, I can’t do this toCallan.I sighed and texted my mom back:Do you think she’ll talk to you?

As I waited for her response, I decided to google Sarah. I found her instantly. I wasn’t sure how I knew it was her, but something just clicked. She was beautiful—her mixed-race heritage gave her striking high cheekbones and large brown eyes. And the kicker: she was a nursing director at a rehab facility. That gave me hope—she was probably sober now. Maybe it would be easier to reach her.

Mom’s text finally came through:No. We don’t have a great history. But she might talk to you.

I closed my eyes and shut off my phone, the guilt pressing hard on my conscience.

* * *

I woke up to Callan massaging my ass, feeling his hard cock teasing between my ass cheeks. It was how I was usually woken up and I loved it. Ever since I realized how much I loved being roughed up during sex, I started seeing more of Callan’s kinky side. But outside the bedroom, he was still the big, tattooed teddy bear I knew and loved. It was an interesting dynamic—despite his tough exterior and dominance in the bedroom, I ended up being the dominant one in every other part of our relationship. And Callan seemed to love it.

“Baby, let’s go for a ride today. Let’s get out of town. Let’s just fucking wander and stay in a shitty hotel off the highway,” Callan excitedly suggested as I lay in his arms after he spanked me and came in my mouth.

I laughed softly. “I’d love that. We probably need a little sunshine after being cooped up here for a few days, huh?” I liftedmyself up to look at him; I wondered if I’d always get butterflies whenever I caught a glimpse of his face.

And then an idea hit me—Sarah.Baltimore. “Do you wanna ride to Baltimore? The Peabody Library is there and I’ve always wanted to go.” I was instantly mortified with myself; I was being selfish, but Ineededto talk to Sarah.

Callan hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, why not?” He didn’t seem thrilled, and I wondered if he knew that Sarah lived there.

“I mean…we don’t have to,” I said, immediately backing out, feeling extremely guilty.

“No, no.” He smiled. “My little bookworm. So fucking smart. Maybe you can teach me how to read there,” he joked.

I laughed, resting my head on his chest. “I don’t know,” I teased, smirking. “Can you handle books without pictures?”

“Oh, I see how it is.” He chuckled, pulling me closer. “Guess I’ll just stick to the coloring books then.”

An hour later, we were on the road to Baltimore. I held onto Callan’s solid body, wishing I could ride with him forever; being with him, anywhere, was my happy place. I was safe with him.

But I wasn’t sure I was ready to be out in public. Even though I’d suggested the Peabody Library, it suddenly felt too crowded, too much attention on us. And the guilt gnawed at me for lying to Callan about my real reasons for coming to Baltimore. As we entered the city, I spotted a small motel and pointed it out, suggesting we stop there. Callan pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine in front of the lobby. I tightened my grip around him, deciding at that moment to come clean.

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