Hope
Dressed in borrowed clothes, I sat at my parents' kitchen table, in the middle of my personal nightmare, watching Hunter clean up a mess I had unintentionally dragged him into.
Curtains were drawn.
Doors were locked.
The body of my would-be rapist was wrapped in blankets and taped.
The gun I had always suspected Hunter carried was loaded and lying on the table beside me.
More than a dozen cigarettes had been lit and smoked in my parents' very nonsmoking house.
His phone was out and pressed to his ear once more, but this time, he wasn’t trying to confess a crime; he was trying to conceal one.
I didn’t need to ask who was on the other side of the line.
It didn’t take a genius to know who he would call in a crisis.
Every once and a while, Hunter cast a glance in my direction, and every time he did, he ended up cursing like a sailor and kicking the body at his feet.
I was afraid to move – to make a dent in his thought process.
He was all business, prowling around the house, taking stock of every window and door; preparing for battle.
I could practically see the wheels of his mind turning as he desperately tried to find a way out of this for us.
Everything we had touched tonight were in his possession now, packed in a trash bag on the floor.
He was erasing us, I realized. Erasing this night.
Meanwhile, I sat motionless at the table, held together only by the strength he was displaying.
If this wasn’t such a peril situation, I would have taken the time to admire Hunter's remarkable skills. It was obvious he was talented at evasion, and I was so damn glad he was here with me. Keeping me safe, settling my nerves with his calmness.
My father's oversized hoodie and sweats swamped my body and I was glad. I wanted to disappear behind the fabric and protect myself from the world. I could smell his cologne on the sleeves and it gave me comfort.
But the truth was I didn’t know if I would ever close my eyes again.
Walking into dark rooms was out.
And this house?
Once I walked out of this house, I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to stomach walking back in.
This was the kitchen of death.
No less than three bodies had lain on this floor since my family had taken up residency in Thirteenth Street, and all of those deaths were a result of murder.
The only luck we had tonight, if you could call it that, was there were no gun shots.
Nothing to alert the neighbors.
Everyone on the street was used to the noise and boisterousness that came from our home.
Having five sons in one place caused noise.
It was our saving grace in this moment.
"Goddammit to hell!" Hunter barked when he was done with his phone call. He shoved his cell into his jeans pocket and rubbed his jaw. "I'm doing the wrong thing here." His gaze landed on my face and he let out a string of muttered curse words before reaching for his cigarettes. "I should have gone with my gut and taken you to the fucking hospital." He took a deep drag from his smoke and released a growl. "Fuck."
"I'm not leaving you," I croaked out for the millionth time, feeling hoarse and sounding raspy. My throat was so sore it felt like razors had set up camp inside of my mouth.
Every time I swallowed, I could taste the tinge of blood mixed with my saliva as it trickled to the back of my throat.
The bleeding on my face had stemmed, but I knew that if I moved around too much, it would start right back up again.
To be honest, I had no clue how there was any blood left in my body.
The only thing I was certain of was that I needed stitches.
I just wasn’t prepared to leave Hunter.
I didn’t want to be apart from him.
Not for one second.
I needed to stay right here with this man.
I was sure he was the only one that could keep me safe.
And I was terrified that if I left him alone he would turn himself in.
The fear of him turning himself in for this scared me far more than the body and the blood and the secrets.