Gina

One Year Later

“Conrad, where did you get that?” I asked, inspecting the purplish blossom marring the boy’s porcelain four-year-old skin. It was just above his elbow, in the fleshy part of his bicep, spanning the size of a hand.

An adult hand.

I didn’t let it show in my voice how much that upset me. I had my “teacher voice” firmly in place, though my hands shook a little.

He glanced away from the picture he was scribbling away at to regard his arm. His eyes glazed over it in surprise, as if he’d forgotten it was there. That was the thing with kids—they got hurt easily, most of them screaming bloody murder when it happened, but moments later it was forgotten.

Adults were not the same.

No matter how much I wished it.

If that were the case, I wouldn’t still be stinging from something that happened a year ago.

“Oh, I… fell,” he said uncertainly, the lie rolling off his tongue bringing an unnatural taste to the air.

Kids barely knew how to lie. Really lie. Not little fibs about how they did, really truly brush their teeth before bed or how they weren’t even a bit tired. But those weren’t lies in the actual sense of the word. The real ones didn’t spring from an innocent mind. They weren’t instinctual. It was because of the adults in their life who tainted their truth and made lies necessary.

I frowned, a thick heat of anger blossoming in my stomach. Also a profound sadness of the horrors in this world, one of the worst ones staring me right in the face. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes before I got myself together and remembered my responsibility to the children in my care. My knees cracked slightly as I bent down to the small table where Conrad and some other children were drawing.

The closer I got to the little man, the more my anger built into an inferno. Conrad had messy blond hair, which was never brushed but always seemed to fall like he’d styled it to be a member of a boy band. Four-year-olds weren’t obsessed with appearances like us. Sure they loved to play dress-up, but it wasn’t for anyone but themselves. They were trying on different images, personas, to see which fit.

That was one of the many reasons I loved teaching kindergarten. Their minds were like a vast garden of possibilities, yet to be poisoned by the pollution of this world’s ideologies.

They just were. And they believed in everything, until someone or something proved them wrong.

And the fact that this wasn’t the first bruise Conrad had come in with, saying he “fell,” made it all worse. Any kind of deliberate injury to a child is the most despicable act, but continued abuse of a being who knows nothing but happiness and possibilities is beyond low.

Conrad was the most sensitive of all my students. He was always the one consoling his fellow classmates the minute someone got upset over whatever it was four-year-olds got upset over. In other words, everything. He always asked me about my weekend and worried about the fact that I was a “lonely spinster,” obviously a little gem he’d picked up from parents.

Along with a nasty bruise.

I lightly traced the baby skin with my finger, making sure my touch was as light as possible. “Does that hurt, Conrad?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Not so much.”

That was another thing that troubled me, him dismissing the pain like an adult spraining their wrist when they’d broken their arm before. It’s the “meh, I’ve had worse” attitude. The “worst” a four-year-old boy should’ve had was some skinned knees from a playground fall.

Not this.

Not targeted violence.

“You know you can talk to me about anything right, Conrad?” I said softly, watching him work on his picture. “You won’t ever get in trouble, I promise. And I’ll do everything I can to make it better. To make it go away.”

His little fingers slackened their grip on the crayon and he stopped coloring for a moment.

I held my breath.

Then, decision made, he continued to color. “I know, Miss Gina. But I just fell. It was my fault. Daddy says I’m krusty.”

I gritted my teeth. “Klutzy?” I offered, correcting him.

He nodded very seriously, then made great efforts to concentrate on his drawing of a monster truck. I took that as my cue. I put my hands on my thighs to push myself up and regard the little blond head.

And then I made a promise to myself that I’d do whatever it took to make sure that little child would never have worse than that bruise.

* * *

It was a week later that there came a result from the call I placed to Child Protective Services the day I’d seen the bruise on Conrad’s arm.

The result came as a knock at my door late on a Saturday afternoon.

Or, more accurately, a pounding.

I’d just finished my cleaning ritual, which I did every Saturday—I was all about routines—so I was treating myself to a cup of sweet tea and enjoying the last of the rays before the sun disappeared.

I was currently spending time with the magician Kvothe, lost in the fantasy, so the pounding of the door back here on earth made me jump enough for the book to tumble from my hands.

I reasoned that the pounding was for logic, not for anything nefarious. I mustn’t have been able to hear a regular knock out on the patio, and the caller had seen my little Beetle in the driveway and knew I was home. They obviously wanted something.

Most people who move away from stifling small towns where everyone knows your business seek refuge in equally stifling but joyfully anonymous cities where they can melt into the crowd and establish themselves as a hip urban dweller.

It had been established that I was not exactly a “follow the pack” type of girl. So, after college, I’d chosen something at random on the map, googled images of the small but picturesque town of Hampton Springs, just an hour outside of Dallas. I applied for a job at the one place they’d had an opening, a kindergarten. I was qualified to teach secondary school students and had planned this gig to be temporary until a slot at the high school or middle school opened up, but it turned out that I loved working with little children. The thought of working with older ones didn’t entice me as much anymore, though I did still hold a dream of being an English teacher and being able to discuss my passion every day. Even though high school students of today weren’t exactly passionate about Anna Karenina or Tolstoy. Not the average one, anyway.

Everyone knew almost everyone in Hampton Springs. Which meant it didn’t cross my mind that the pounding at the door could have nefarious or violent undertones.

I did get the violent undertones from the fist that landed in my face the moment I opened the door.

* * *

I had never been subjected to violence before. Despite my home life being less than ideal, to say the least, my parents gave me not so much as a smacked bottom.

Punishments implied some sort of caring on either of their parts. Some sort of active participation in their roles in my life.

But no such thing happened. And instead of running wild like most kids with unlimited slack would do, I made sure I was well behaved. Did my chores, excelled in school, never broke curfew. In fact, I never had a curfew to break. A curfew implied having somewhere to go, which I did not.

So I spent a lot of time at home when I couldn’t be with my grandmother. When she died, I spent time buried in a book, mostly on my own. And while a lot of that was emotionally painful, it had nothing on a right hook to the eye.

I wasn’t expecting it when I opened the door—who would be? My shock and surprise meant I hadn’t found a strong base before the strike, and I therefore ended up cracking my head on the hardwood floor with the force of the blow. Spots exploded in the front of my eyes.

“Bitch!” a strong voice slurred at me.

I rolled onto my back, trying to scoot my booty backward, away from Wayne, Conrad’s father.

I recognized his large form and his voice, even though it was obscured by his obvious drunkenness.

His boot in my ribs hampered my motions to crawl back into my house in search of escape or a phone. The pain in my eye remained and more blossomed in my midsection, winding me. I tried to cry out, but it was just motions of my mouth as my lungs struggled to suck in air.

Because I was rendered stationary, Wayne could step into the doorway I was half lying in and grab me by the hair to yank me up to his face. I let out a soundless scream as my scalp erupted in white-hot pain.

His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, his stubbled cheeks patchy with hair growth, broken capillaries scattered about his face.

“You think you’ve got a fuckin’ right to put your prissy nose in my fuckin’ business? Take my fuckin’ son away from me? You’re going to be so sorry you did that,” he promised. “You don’t have no cop boyfriend to protect you now.” He grinned wickedly. Evilly. “In fact, he’s most likely to sympathize with me now that he knows what a cunt you are.”

I managed to glare at him through the pain, the insults and the ugly words. The glare was fueled by the memory of a small arm bruised by a much larger one. “Oh no, I’ll never be sorry for what I did,” I wheezed. “Every time you hurt me, it cements what a coward you are and makes sure you’ll never see your son again. I’ll make it my mission to ensure that,” I gave him a promise of my own.

My words penetrated through his drunken haze and sobered him. But not in a way that invited reason. Men who abused their children had something missing in their brains. Reason didn’t exist, only hateful anger. Violence. Ugliness. So I knew he was going to unleash more of that on me.

I was scared. Terrified, actually. But I was telling the truth—nothing that could happen right now would make me regret my decision. Because the terror and pain I was feeling was what a four-year-old boy had been feeling up until then. Wayne had found someone his own size to pick on, and though I wished it wasn’t me, wished it wasn’t anyone, I was glad that at least it wasn’t Conrad.

That didn’t mean I was going to lie down and let a cowardly, sick man hurt me like he thought he had the right to.

No way in hell would I do that.

So just as he reared his hand backward to strike me again, I lifted my knee awkwardly to make contact with his balls. It wasn’t near as hard as I would’ve liked, or what he deserved, but it did the trick.

He cried out in pain, stumbling back and letting me go in the process. My head hit the hard wood of my floor again, painfully and hard. So hard I saw black spots in front of my eyes instead of the white ones of before. I looked around them, gritting my teeth and using my anger and fear to push me upward. I acted on sheer survival instinct, running not into the safety of my house but around Wayne’s groaning and writhing body and onto my front lawn.

I was intending to run across the street to my closest neighbors, who just happened to be some of my best friends.

My only friends.

Garth wasn’t a big man, but he didn’t need to be big. He just needed to be someone a bully wouldn’t pick on. One he wouldn’t perceive as weaker. My destination seemed an age away, even though my street was small and compact and if I’d had a good arm I could’ve thrown a stone and hit their front door.

I didn’t need to do that. Nor did I need to cross the street and seek solace and protection.

Because those who swore to protect and serve screeched up to the curb right in front of me.

I sighed in relief at the flashing lights and what they represented.

Safety.

Well, that was before the government-issued boot hit the grass I was about to collapse onto.

Safety from the man who’d punched me might be offered here, but not much of it.

Simon had never offered that.

* * *

Even though it wasn’t a pounding at my door and the ink hadn’t even dried on my restraining order, I definitely paused before turning the handle. My newly purchased pepper spray was hidden in my left hand, finger on the trigger.

I mentally reminded myself to get a peephole installed. Or research some sort of security option. Surely in the days of smartphones and drones I could have a more sophisticated way of identifying my callers than a peephole.

Though the technology no doubt existed, my means of purchasing it might not.

Whatever disposable income I had left after bills and savings, I put toward books or little pieces for my house. To create a home. And there wasn’t usually that much left over in the first place. Kindergarten teachers in small towns weren’t exactly making the big bucks.

I reasoned the chances of me getting punched again in broad daylight on a Wednesday afternoon were relatively low. Especially with Wayne still residing in the lockup we had just outside of town. Hence me opening the door.

I also yearned for a little human contact, despite the black-and-blue bruise spanning my temple and underside of my right eye, showing me just how ugly human contact would be. I wasn’t allowed at work because my appearance might “scare the children” in addition to the whole “child’s father physically attacked me” scenario. I was put on paid leave until I healed.

Physically I wouldn’t take long. The bruises looked particularly nasty now, but they would fade. I knew the emotional ones would take longer. Not just from the beating, but having to deal with Simon when I’d been fragile and scared afterward. Wayne was a buddy of his; that said enough about him. He said he’d turned up because of a text Wayne had sent about me, which made him worried for my safety.

He’d never been worried for my safety before, even when we were together. It was laughable, his superficial concern. I was happy to make my statement quickly and then retreat into my little sanctuary, pretending I wouldn’t have to testify or deal with Simon.

My stomach turned slightly at the prospect of Simon being on the other side of the door. That would’ve been about on par to a fist to the face.

Though it wasn’t a fist to the face, I was greeted with a whole lot of angry male when I opened the door.

Precisely the last male in the entire world I expected to be darkening my doorstep.

“What the fuck?” Sam hissed, his entire face turning into a mask of fury as he spotted my own. Not that the bruises were easy to miss. They’d come out terrible. And I did admit they kind of scared me, so I hated to think what they’d do to my little class. Which was why I hadn’t put up much of an argument when my boss had firmly suggested I take the week off.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, blinking rapidly to make sure Sam on my doorstep wasn’t some kind of mirage caused by a delayed concussion.

The doctor had warned me about that. Not a rock star who I’d slept with and then had my heart broken by appearing on my doorstep after a year, the delayed concussion. Pria, my neighbor and friend, had stayed with me the first night and dutifully woke me up every hour to make sure I hadn’t lapsed into a coma as a result of an overlooked brain injury.

Not that I needed waking up since I wasn’t really sleeping. Hadn’t for well on a week.

I came to the conclusion that Sam was not a coma-induced apparition considering he stepped forward, close to me. Close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, inhale his scent and realize that yes, he was really there.

“What the fuck happened to your fucking face?” he demanded, not answering my question. I didn’t even know if he’d heard me, or realized I’d spoken. His arm twitched as if he had the urge to lift it and inspect my injury with the gentle touch I knew he had command of.

The shelves rattled.

No. I wasn’t allowed to think of that.

“Never mind that,” I dismissed, not wanting to go into that whole nightmare in front of Sam. “Why are you here?” I asked coldly. “And how did you find out where I lived?” Now that the surprise was fading, I could hold on to the anger that seeing him brought on.

I found myself presented with yet another one of Sam’s many faces. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t thought of them in the months since that horrible morning. If I’d said that I hadn’t dusted off some of those memories and put them back on the shelf, despite all logic and reason.

Since I wasn’t a liar—most of the time, at least—I found myself comparing this current face to all the others I’d seen on Sam. Like the one that horrible morning. This one was hard, carved from granite, but it wasn’t cold. No, you could fry a proverbial egg on the heat of his fury. And concern, if I recognized it correctly.

But I didn’t have the energy to analyze the subtleties of all the small expressions making up this version of Sam.

I was tired. Tired from dealing with statements, of being in pain, of staring my ex in the face and having to grit my teeth through his false concern that was mingled with undermined comments.

“Why didn’t you come to me instead of involving outside organizations? I would’ve spoken to Wayne. I could’ve taken care of it. Instead, you decided to put yourself in this situation. Really, Gina,” he sighed, shaking his head.

Yeah, he was a cop. And an asshole. Blaming me for getting a kid out of an abusive situation, getting myself into one and putting one of his best drinking buddies behind bars. Though I was sure he’d find a way to get him out.

I worried about that too. Amongst other things.

I was even more tired from dealing with the nice comments that came from my friends the moment they found out what happened. Which was approximately two minutes after Simon had rocked up in his patrol car. Pria and Garth had come out on their front porch at the commotion. I was sure they were more than a little surprised to see that I was the cause, considering in the two years I’d lived there I hadn’t caused any commotion—of the violent variety or otherwise.

Then came Pria’s insistence that she be with me throughout the whole ordeal, her husband standing sentinel with a grim expression that made me think he somehow blamed himself. Which, even though it was totally ridiculous, was the mark of a caring man.

It had been almost a week since “the incident” and I’d only just gotten rid of Pria. Not that I didn’t appreciate her hovering and concern, but I needed to decompress. Or more accurately compress myself into another world and cocoon myself away from this one.

What I needed didn’t factor into the universe’s plans, it seemed. Or Sam’s.

He appeared to have lost whatever battle he was waging with his left hand as he stepped forward, right into my space, and lightly cupped my injured cheek, eyes glued to the bruise.

“Who. The. Fuck. Did. This?” he gritted out, every word its own sentence. Its own zip code.

I stepped back, the second time in a week I’d had to escape from an angry male on my doorstep. Though I knew this particular one wasn’t likely to punch me in the face.

He was able to do much worse than that.

If I let him.

I entertained the idea of punching him in the face. He definitely deserved it. But I reasoned I’d probably just break my hand, and I really didn’t need another injury.

His jaw hardened at my retreat and his eyes glittered with fury. Thankfully, he didn’t try to advance on me. He seemed the same as before. People didn’t normally add up to the image you’d built of them in your head. You usually remember them taller, with more muscles, more commanding in presence. Just more.

But not Sam.

Imagination, even the likes of mine, was a poor reproduction of the real thing. His hair was messily thrown up into a bun, longer than the last time I saw him. The shades that had been covering his face were abruptly pushed up the second I’d opened the door. He was wearing all black, as usual, a tight black tee decorated with silver chains hanging from different lengths around his neck. The slogan was slightly obscured but still readable, a line drawing of a head with horns with “Bad Samaritan” written in childlike writing underneath. It was tucked behind a thick silver belt buckle on tight, ripped black jeans. They were tucked into scuffed black Doc Martins. On anyone else, such an outfit would look ridiculous. Much like Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow. He was the only person in the world who could pull of such a persona.

It was out of place in my quiet suburbia street in the middle of nowhere. As was the sleek black convertible parked in my driveway.

The latest Corvette, if I wasn’t mistaken.

Sam was anything but inconspicuous.

I crossed my arms, forgetting my one cracked rib. I tried in vain to hide the wince but Sam caught it. He seemed to be making it his mission to imprint me onto his mind.

That time he stepped forward.

“Lift your shirt,” he commanded roughly.

“Not even if you took me to dinner first,” I shot back, surprising even myself at the venom in my tone. My decision to let my anger go and be Zen had flown out the window the moment Sam came into my orbit and the pain came back. The best salve for pain was anger.

In that situation, at least.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Either you do it or I do it for you.” There was no erotic teasing in his tone, just grim determination.

I eyed him. “You’d force yourself into my home, then put your hands on me and forcefully undress me?” I said calmly. “I’ve had more than enough of that for one week. So I’ll respectfully decline your offer that you so kindly packaged as a command.”

His entire form stilled. Like he somehow had control over the air around him, even that seemed to hit pause. Like the way it went quiet in the eye of a storm.

Eerie.

Dangerous beyond belief.

“Forcefully undress you?” he choked out, the words apparently physically painful for him to say. Even through the shroud of my fury, they were painful for me to hear. “Did someone—”

“No,” I cut him off briskly and simply. Even though I wished petty things on Sam, like someone—maybe me in about ten minutes—would back into his car, I wasn’t about to let him think I’d been raped in order to exact some kind of fucked-up revenge on him.

“No. It wasn’t like that,” I said firmly.

Though I didn’t know what it exactly was like. Without warning, a replay of that whiskey-drenched breath and those red-speckled cheeks assaulted me. And that time I didn’t escape, nor did my ex-boyfriend come and save the day. No, I was dragged farther into my house and was rendered helpless and brutalized….

I snapped my mind from that scenario with a swift intake of breath. Until now, I’d been rather good at compartmentalizing the event, the reason for my stiff midsection and black-and-blue face. I’d buried the reality of it almost as deep as I’d buried Sam. It was as if his appearance had rattled those shelves loose and thrust them upon me.

Whatever it was, it winded me. More than the one cracked rib.

Sam noticed.

I recovered. Or at least tried to. On the surface. I was in the company of a celebrity after all, and appearances meant everything. What wasn’t shown didn’t exist in the world of the superstar. Which was what Sam was to me now. He wasn’t Sam anymore. Not since that morning.

“The man who so kindly tried to give me a free and rather painful nose job was here on a different sort of business than… that,” I continued. I was ashamed to hear my voice quiver. “He was here on account of his four-year-old son being taken off him as a result of a call I made. His four-year-old son who I teach. His four-year-old son who he, until a week ago, had been physically abusing.”

Sam flinched—actually flinched—at my words.

I ignored it. “So he was coming over here to have a discussion with me the only way a man like him knows how to discuss such things—with violence. It is, after all, the communicative tool of the evil, unintelligent or emotionally crippled.” I glanced down at his clenched fist pointedly.

Sam tilted his head and regarded me for a while. A long while. In a way that I knew he was no longer transfixed by my outward wounds but more interested in the ones underneath. Beneath my words.

But that couldn’t have been right. This Sam didn’t see beneath. Or if he did he disregarded it. I knew that now.

“Well I don’t think of myself as unintelligent,” he said finally. “In fact, I have my SAT scores framed in my bedroom. Above average. True story.” He winked. And that time I saw through it. The image he was using to gloss over whatever it was that had been on his face moments before, whatever it was that he’d seen on mine. “Despite my self-proclaimed ability to out-science Stephen Hawking, I’ll totally call off the grudge match with him in order to wear the badge of unintelligence I need in order to pummel the living shit out of the man who did this to my—” He paused abruptly, his voice thick. “Who did this to you. So if you’d be so kind as to give me his address and last known location, I’ll take my freshly unintelligent—and might I say perfectly sculpted—ass out of here and do Batman’s job for him.”

I stared at him in shock.

He clearly mistook it for confusion. “Serving justice. That’s Batman’s job,” he clarified. “But since the fucker got all famous, he got an ego and started slacking. And if it’s one thing I don’t have, other than herpes, it’s an ego.”

It was a strange thing, to hear the familiar nonsense coming out of Sam’s mouth like he was tripping acid, but watching the way he held every inch of his chiseled body taut and still. Like marble. How the previously soft and pleasant edge to his words dripped with a darkness that wasn’t there before.

Or it had been and it hadn’t had a chance to see the sunshine until now.

“You’re joking,” I said finally.

He crossed his arms. “I never joke about Batman,” he countered. “Or herpes.”

I blinked at him, then stepped forward to grasp the corner of my door, intending on closing it on him and making my intention known to him as I did so.

“Well this little trip down the rabbit hole has been most unpleasant,” I lied. Some fucked-up part of me had savored every moment of the exchange, of his scent, of him. Even with everything that happened. Luckily, she wasn’t in control. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do. And it’s a long drive back to LA.” I nodded to the car, mostly to reinforce my point but also to avoid eye contact. Or almost wholly to avoid eye contact. It was only the absence of it that made it possible for me to keep my icy and detached done. “It’s even longer to Gotham City, if you wanted to pop into the Batcave and give Batman a stern talking to. Or party with him. I hear he gets all the pretty empty-headed damsels, so I’m sure there’d be a stray or two scuttling around for you,” I clipped. I found my courage and met his glassy eyes. “Because here in Hampton Springs, there’s not an empty head to be seen. On your side of the conversation, at least. And there sure as heck isn’t a damsel. I may not look like it, but I can take care of myself just fine, and I will protect myself. Which is precisely what I’m doing.”

I tried to close the door on him but a tattooed hand flat on the wood, plus a Doc Martin at the bottom, hampered such an effort.

“All appearances to the contrary, I do believe there is a little stock in what you’re saying,” he murmured. “A whole lot. You sure can take care of yourself. And it looks like you aren’t too keen on having me do that for you.” His eyes darkened. “For now, at least.”

“Forever,” I clarified. And lied.

Sam’s eyes flickered, but he otherwise didn’t acknowledge my words. “So if you don’t want nor need me to take care of you at this immediate juncture, I’ll take care of everything else around you. More precisely the man who is going to be drinking his meal through a straw for the next five to eight weeks and will no longer be able to have children,” he gritted. “So, Thumbelina, give me his fucking address.” His command was rough, animalistic.

The sheer volume of emotion in the words, in his body, in his eyes almost gave me pause. Almost had me doing the insane and not only opening the door to him but giving him what he requested.

Almost.

“No,” I said, the single word a physical chore to yank from my lips. “I’m not going to do that just because you command it. For whatever fucked-up reason you think you need it. Whatever reason you’re here. Just because you can get whatever you want in your little bubble doesn’t mean you can get it everywhere else. With me. You’re just another jerk from high school to me.” I eyed the foot at the door. “One who is not only harassing me but forcing his way into my home. Which, as I mentioned earlier, is something I’ve already ticked off the list for my week. Preferably my lifetime. So kindly get your hand off my door and your person out of my doorframe, get into that ridiculously showy car and drive. I don’t care where you go. As long as it’s away from me, I’ll be happy.”

The lies rolled off my tongue easier the more I told. So well I could almost convince myself that I was telling the truth. That I didn’t want Sam there. That I didn’t need him there. That even his sheer imprint on the memory of the place where I’d been assaulted didn’t somehow exorcise the ghost of those memories.

Almost.

I was never a good liar. Not until I had to be. Now I was all right. but still a long way away from being able to lie to myself.

Sam seemed to buy it. Or at least he saw he’d met his match in a scared, scorned and scarred woman.

He dropped his hand. Moved his boot. Stepped back.

“This isn’t over,” he promised, reaching out to the air close to my cheek, not making contact but hovering, seeming to ask for permission.

I stepped out of his reach. “Oh yes it is.”

Then I slammed the door in his face.