Page 8 of My Fiancé's Brother 2

“So, do we take this off first or what?” he asked in a matter of fact voice, as he studied my dress.

“I don’t have my button hook.”

“What’s a button hook?”

“I need it to take off my dress.”

“So, you want me to hold your skirts while you sit down?”

I shook my head, my shame complete.

“Turn around,” he said. I felt him start to lift layers and layers of organza. “Jesus. Are you actually underneath all of this?”

“Jackson,” I wailed.

He was standing behind me and had my entire skirt pulled up above my waist. “Your modesty is safe with me. I can’t see past all of this fluff.”

We shuffled over to the toilet where I managed to sit down.

And I sat.

We both waited.

I thought my bladder was going to burst but still, I could not pee.

“I thought you said you had to go.”

“I can’t do it with you here.”

We waited some more.

He started to talk. “The training exercise I hated the most was the box.”

“What is the box?”

“They lock you in a wooden box that is so small you can only kneel with your head bent. Your hands are cuffed behind your back, and you’re blindfolded. It is disgustingly hot. The soundtrack thatthey play at full volume is death rock, dogs barking or my personal favorite, babies crying. The first time I did the box I was in there for 20 hours without relief. I pissed myself at least six times.”

I started to pee.

“Who are these people? Why would they do that to you?”

“It trains us to mentally withstand the pressure of captivity.”

“And you really peed yourself?”

“My friend, Chris, did worse things to himself in his box.”

I started to laugh. “This story isn’t true. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“It’s true. But if you ever tell Chris I told you that, he'd kill me.”

His story impacted me on so many levels. Jackson always knew what to say to make me feel better. It gave me a glimpse of how horrible his job must be, and it intrigued me that he had a friend. I only knew Jackson in my world. I couldn’t imagine him in his.

“Feel better?”

I nodded. He watched me while I washed my hands. My complexion looked translucent. My hair was artfully pinned up. I looked impossibly young. Behind me loomed Jackson’s massive frame. I drank in his black suit, messy hair and cut lip. We were so mismatched in appearances it wasn’t even funny.

“I left because it was so good I couldn’t resist.”

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