Chapter Nine
Consciousness, I realize, is not necessarily an on or off state of being. I’d always worked on the supposition one was awake or not. Yes or no. Black or white. In the after-orgasm glow, I’m conscious of Roy’s warm, hard body resting against mine from shoulder to ankle. The feather-light touch of his fingertips gliding over my flat belly. His scent like a pine forest after a snowfall. I’m in a twilight land of subdued colors and textures, and even my thought patterns seem as benign as an under-six amusement park ride. I can’t ever remember being this relaxed, this utterly happy and, when I can control my body to do so, I roll my head to the side and rest against his shoulder and look up into his green eyes. I expect a glint of arrogance after my first orgasm, a thing I thought I was incapable of achieving. Instead, he’s gazing at me in the same way Reggie used to regard Mae—with awe and love and devotion. It makes everything we shared much more precious to me.
“Tha…” My voice cracks. “Thank you.”
He leans in and presses his soft lips to mine. His hand, like a meandering river, flows from my stomach to my thighs and cups my sex. “I want you to always come to me, for me, with whatever you need.”
Like a cat, I lift my arms up and open my body, perhaps mimicking how warm and safe and content I am and turn on my side to face him.
His eyes are hooded. The crease between his brows is barely visible. At the root of things, we are male and female, and he’s provided for me. His need, though, is obvious and must be painful trapped behind his expensive trousers.
He watches as I run my palm over the dark hairs on his chest. I’m comforted and safe and happy against his powerful body. And I’m grateful, so incredibly grateful, that what we just shared wasn’t tainted by unwanted memories. He shifts slightly, and his sex rubs against me. He’s neutered his own desires so as not to frighten me. He must be ravenous.
“I want to…” How should I say it? “I mean…” I’m doing a piss-poor job here. At least Roy isn’t rushing me; he seems perfectly content to watch me like the Cheshire cat. “I’d like to…take care of you…” Doing great, Daisy—not. “I mean I know the mechanics of it,” I blurt out. “From Vincent overshare.”
“Mechanics.” Roy throws his head back and laughs.
Even his neck is thickly muscled. “Let me,” I whisper.
His laughter abruptly ends, his hair falling forward, dropping over one eye as he runs his eyes over my body. “I can only imagine what you’ve learned from him.”
Vincent has never been shy about sharing the details of his rambunctious sex life. “I’ve heard everything.” I roll my eyes. “I think he’s ruined me for…”
“Anal.” Roy finishes my sentence. His tone saying it’s a word like any other. “You either like it, or you don’t. There’s no in-between ground there.”
“So, you’ve tried it?”
“Do you want to talk about my prior sex life?”
Yes, I do, I think. “Well,” I urge, “have you?”
He dips his head slightly.
I shake my head and turn my forefinger in a circle.
His smile is slow and sexy. “No, I’ve never been on the receiving end.”
“Vincent says—”
“I’m perfectly fine to go through my life as an anal virgin.”
Now I laugh, thinking this must be the only thing virginal about Roy.
He clears his throat. “I’m honored you chose me. And this.” His giant paw of a hand slides up my back and around to engulf my breast. “Is a work of art.” His thumb and forefinger work my nipple tight.
I’ve never much cared for my breasts, too heavy, too much in the way—until now. On the tip of my tongue is the word harder, but he denied me before.
He pulls his hand away and searches my face. “Out with it. What’s bothering you?”
My breast protests the loss of his hand and fingers. “Am I so easy to read?”
“If only.”
A no, I guess. “I liked it when you…” I’m too embarrassed to say twisted my nipple. Instead, I make a hand movement over my breast.
“You wanted me to apply more pressure.” I nod, and he exhales deeply. “I’m out of my depth here.”
He seems in his element to me. I’m almost ready to make a smartass remark when I see he’s genuinely concerned. “I’m a freak, aren’t I?”
“No.” His fingers brush my curls away from my face.
I roll over onto my back, not knowing what to say or how to act and not exactly sure how to take his remark. Is he saying I’m not right because I like a little discomfort? He’s quiet, and I’m quiet, and I’m afraid to turn and face him.
His knee parts my legs, his muscled body slides in between them, stretching me wide to accommodate his size. Carefully, like I might shatter at any moment, his hips lightly rest on mine with his hardness grazing over my sex. His arms like pillars hold the weight of his upper body. “Don’t shut down on me, not now.”
I lift my eyes and see no judgment, only his care for me, and it emboldens me. “What if…” I’m afraid to say the words, yet I need to let him know what I’m thinking. “I need a little pain?”
His eyebrow springs up and first his right elbow, then his left, lowers onto the bed until our chests are mated. His eyes take in my face like he’s memorizing every plane and peak to the tiniest detail. “Trust me?” My nod has him continue. “I’m open to exploring anything you want to do. Just for a little while let’s try it my way.”
His hips roll against me, and the zipper of his pants is right where I need friction. “Eyes,” he commands.
I blink them back open and try to focus on him, but everything’s a blur of sensation as he continues to work me against the hardness contained in his pants. I need to touch him, and my hand slides under his waistband.
“Later,” he groans and captures my hand, lifting it above my head.
Like muscle memory, my body knows where this is going, and my legs open wider. “Yes,” I gasp for air. “Please don’t stop.”
One, two, three more rotations and I’m a shooting star, streaking across the night sky into oblivion.
His breath, hot at my neck, brings me back. “I love the way you come.”
When I regain my senses, there’s a tiny moment of panic at being pinned under his massive body. He lifts up but remains on top of me, and I’m able to swipe the fear aside. It’s like a key inserted into a lock opening a door, this revelation of freedom in his arms. “Please.” I place my hand along his thick neck. “Let me taste you.”
He sucks in air and growls.
If I can take control of this, I can own it. I run my tongue over my dry lips. “Show me how to make you come.”
Again, another growl and his eyes are dark. His arms slightly shake. “There’d be no need for instruction. The thought of sliding into that hot, soft mouth of yours has me cocked and ready.”
Oh, I like it when he talks dirty. “Then?”
“I’m tempted.”
“Please.” My voice breathy.
He adjusts his weight to slide down my body and sucks my nipple between his lips.
My back arches up and my fingers twine through his dark hair, urging him on. With Roy lavishing attention on them, they’re alive and achy and send the most delicious sensations through my body.
Roy stiffens and removes his lips. His head turns towards the doorway.
“What?”
His head snaps to the ornate clock resting on the fireplace mantel. “Shit. It’s later than I thought.” He slides off the bed, standing at the side and holding his hand out for me. “We need dinner anyway.”
“Really? Can’t it wait?” Food is like the millionth thing on my list right now, and I ogle his body right down to the large, wet spot on the front of his trousers. “I could soak them.”
He follows my gaze and smiles and, without hesitation, takes them off. His erection bounces a few times until it protrudes proud and straight out from his belly.
“Please come back to bed.” My fingers twitch with the overwhelming desire to touch him.
He grabs himself and strokes slowly downward. “You want this.”
Yes, where do I sign up, and can we do it now?
“After dinner.” His erection and his smile could both be described as cocksure. “We’ll see…what comes up.”
Exasperated, I sigh. “I don’t want dinner. I want you.”
Taking the soiled pants with him, he goes to the opposite side of the room from my closet. When he returns, he’s wearing faded jeans and a white cotton shirt. Roy is a wet dream of a powerful man in his prime.
His eyes linger on all my bits. I realize I’m standing in the room naked. I yank the comforter from the bed and wrap it around myself.
He rearranges himself in his pants. “Downstairs in twenty minutes, or I might change my mind and give you a good spanking tonight.”
My eyes widen, not with fear, but curiosity and a lot of lust. Of course, his green eyes register everything I’m thinking.
“Daisy, the things I’ll do to that body of yours.”
I shiver with want. “Do it before I’m too old to care,” I yell as he walks out the door.
“Twenty minutes, not a second more,” his voice drifts in from the hallway.
He’s insufferable and bossy and sexy and handsome and strong and can do things with his hands and those long fingers. I have an I-just-remembered-there's-cheesecake-in-the-fridge grin on my face as I toss the comforter on the bed and go to the bathroom. A shower’s what I need, and the water takes no time to heat up. I’m already naked so it’s a hop and a step and I’m under the water. I’m lathered and rinsed in a flash. I grab the disposable razor and make quick work of under my arms and all the way up my legs. I stop at my pubic hair, the thatch contained within a neat triangle, though I’ve never trimmed it.
Roy’s hair and beard are the darkest brown, bordering on black, his chest hair is the same, while the hair between his legs is mainly black. He doesn’t manscape, as Vincent calls it.
Does he want me bare there? Do I want that? Later, maybe, when I have more time. I place the razor back on its shelf. I do a quick rinse, step out, and dry while I peruse the products on the bathroom counter. There’s moisturizer. Guess what? It’s my brand. Coincidence, I think not. Bunched together like comrades in arms are the deodorant and toothpaste and mascara and a box of the tampons I use. Roy misses nothing. To the side is a small bottle of perfume. I don’t wear any fragrance. While I lotion my legs and arms and breasts, I read the label: Chanel Gardenia. He’s apparently left it for me. That beautiful glass bottle with the amber liquid sends a tremor of doubt rippling through my system. Does he have all his sexual partners wear this? He’s said I’m different, not the same as the other women.
Not moving a muscle except for my eyes, which scan the room like he’ll appear, I wait. He’s not a fucking ghost, I tell myself. Nothing. Crickets. Overhead, the bathroom fan kicks on and jolts me out of my paralyzed state.
There’s no Charlie. No snide or hurtful comments. I’m alone inside my head. Is he gone, like for good, like put-a-stake-through-his-heart gone? Seems too easy.
“Don’t,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. “Don’t overthink this.” And dart out of the bathroom.
I’m not putting my work clothes back on. I’m left with the items hanging in my designated closet. By elimination, I pass over the dresses and the robes. Nope to the jeans and shorts. I step into and slide up my legs a pair of lace and silk panties in a delicate shade of light blue. The matching bra has a front enclosure. The seams fall precisely over my nipples, now slightly sore pleasure centers. I’m still left with what to wear. For a nanosecond, I think of going downstairs as I am and quickly kick that idea to the curb.
Curious as to the contents of his closet, I pad barefoot across the plush pile rugs. Only a few suits and shirts hanging together with shoes lined up underneath. A striped blue shirt catches my eye. When I slip it on, it’s ridiculously large, hanging below my knees and I have to roll and roll the sleeves to see my hands. I leave the top three buttons undone, exposing my cleavage pushed up by the lace bra.
Releasing the band holding up my unruly mop of hair, I lean over and run my fingers through the curls until I know I’ve gotten as many tangles out as possible. Flipping my head up, a la Rita Hayworth in Gilda, I square my shoulders and check the time. I’m at the twenty-minute mark. I sprint down the stairs and rush to the library. Empty. I hear him talking. He must be on the phone. I jog toward the kitchen on the pads of my feet.
Without turning around, he says, “You’re four minutes late.”
Swearing under my breath, I respond, “And you’re a control freak.”
He turns to the side, giving me a quick once-over—and also exposing a man dressed in a dark suit and tie. “And this is Proctor.” Roy turns back to his guest and continues. “Set up a round-the-clock detail.” He holds his arm out from his body, and I walk underneath and lean against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Give us a moment,” he says to the man, who dutifully exits the room.
“Why didn’t you tell me we’d have a guest?” I whisper and wrap my arms around my waist. “I could have been naked.”
“I like you naked.”
I glare up at him.
“Let’s button this.” His thick fingers easily close a button, covering up my cleavage.
“Who is he?” I whisper.
“One of my people.” He nods to the kitchen counter, where the red Cartier jewelry box is sitting unwanted like a decade-old fruitcake.
Can’t I get a night off from my Lifetime made-for-TV movie drama? Who am I kidding? I step out from under the shelter of his arm and round to face him. “Detail…bodyguard.” I point the way he’d left. “Is that what he is?”
He strolls over and picks up the offending box. “Proctor, we’re presentable now.”
Proctor must have been a soldier because he has perfect posture, straight shoulders, and hands behind his back, waiting dutifully for Roy to continue. I can’t pin down where, but I’ve seen him before, and it takes a few heartbeats to realize he was in the picture with Roy, the one I found on the Internet. His facial features are the same, but his essence—is that the right word for it?—is different. In the photo, he resembled a Midwestern farm boy, all muscle and enthusiasm and energy. The man standing in front of me is nothing like that. He’s wary, reserved, and something about him is downright frightening.
“This is Daisy.”
Only then does Proctor make brief eye contact with me. A tight nod of his head and his eyes immediately snap back to Roy.
Roy lifts the box and shuffles it between his hands like a juggler. “Tell us what you found out.”
“Fingerprints on the case and ring.” His voice is flat and even like a long stretch of road with no distractions. “None in any government database.”
Roy opens the box, exposing the large emerald. “Not surprising. Go on.”
“We contacted Cartier. It’s a custom piece, probably commissioned in the nineteen-twenties given the number code. Their records were destroyed in a fire in the early forties, so they have no idea who it was made for. For all we know it was sold at auction or an estate sale or stolen or—”
Roy cuts in, “Still remains with the same family who originally purchased it.”
Proctor nods, shifts his weight, and resumes his stance.
“Anything from the store cameras?”
“No. The box was thrown and meant to land at the front door. Which means the perpetrator was avoiding the old cameras. The new install has a farther reach and no blind spots.”
I’m ping-ponging between the two of them, trying to read the unsaid parts of this conversation. Roy’s face is grim. Proctor’s impossible for me to read.
Proctor continues, “Normal foot traffic. Nothing unusual. Streets roll up around ten.”
Roy snaps the box shut and sets it back on the counter. “Well, I know it’s not much, but do you have any ideas?”
Proctor cuts his eyes to me. “The previous gifts have been insignificant, cheap. Things you would give a child.”
He’s too detached, and scrutinizing me like I’m something to be studied under a microscope.
“And?” Roy places his hand at the nape of my neck.
Proctor’s eyes go back to him as he continues, “I spoke with her aunts.”
My sharp intake of breath catches his attention. Only his eyes move, and it reminds me of a lizard waiting motionless for prey. I hope he was nice to them. Hope he didn’t scare the bejesus out of them.
He continues. “They’ve never seen a note or handwriting of any kind. Could be the person is aware of handwriting analysis. Or he’s illiterate. There’s always a daisy, either plastic or fresh. Gifts are wrapped in white paper, not wrapping paper but regular copy paper. All gifts pertain to something that occurred in the previous year. He knows someone close to her or is near himself. The ring was an anomaly.”
Roy’s thumb glides back-and-forth over the side of my neck. “You said he.”
Again, Proctor scans me with those shark eyes and nods.
I’m shaking my head. “I’ve always thought it was my mother.”
Dark, unreadable eyes narrow onto me. “Why?”
I step back and bump into a stool. Roy’s hand tightens around my neck. Proctor’s scrutiny is too intense, and I twist out of Roy’s hold and walk around the island to open up the fridge. I grab a Coke, twist the cap off, and rush to the kitchen sink when it fizzes up. Ripping a paper towel off, I clean up the mess and the bottle and take a long drink before speaking. “Who else could it be?” I don’t say I hoped it was her.
Proctor blinks a few times and appears to discount me, turning those frigid eyes onto Roy and continues, “The ring could be an offering. A common practice when a male sees a female as sexually viable and wants to lay claim.”
Roy clears his throat. “Yes, agreed.”
Is Proctor some sort of super-soldier experiment gone wrong? Outwardly, he’s a handsome, fit man. But all his mannerisms are off slightly, like he has to make himself act like a human. Words like serial killer and psychopath spring to mind.
“There’s also the introduction of an outside factor he didn’t anticipate.” Proctor’s speaking directly to Roy. “The perpetrator would see you as a threat to his claim. He’s angry, frustrated. The ring—obviously a big step for him—wasn’t discovered when he’d intended. You’ve taken her from him. It will make him reckless. I’d use it to our advantage.”
“And if Daisy is right and it’s her mother?” Roy asks.
It’s like watching a computer run a program. Proctor doesn’t move a muscle as he stands stock still while he thinks through the scenario.
“A mother only abandons a child if she has no choice or does not want the child. The ring is worth approximately five times what an average person makes in a year. She could have sold it and provided for the child. Therefore, she would not have abandoned her. Thus, the mother did not want her and would not have left gifts. No,” he says emphatically. “It’s not a woman, not her mother.”
The hope I’ve clung to all these years is ripped from my heart.
“Daisy, I’m sorry.” Roy lowers his head to catch my eyes. “I have to agree with Proctor. I don’t think this is your mother’s doing.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, turning back to Proctor. “What do you propose?”
Proctor’s eyes go from me to the ring to Roy. “Three options. We do nothing. Either he will stop, or he will make himself known. Either way, it will allow time to gather information and make a more accurate deduction.”
“Which is what I’ve been doing?” I hate the tinny quality of my voice.
“You’ve taken his gifts,” Proctor responds.
“So you mean next year I’m to let it sit there until it rots or someone else picks it up?”
“Precisely. The giver exacts pleasure from knowing you’ve found the gift. Deny him. For now, we pretend the ring was never found.”
“No, too many people witnessed the discovery. What else?” Roy asks.
“She relocates for as long as needed. The person will seek her out. Make inquiries. Outside her usual environment, it will be easier to pinpoint him.”
“No, nope, not happening.” I walk around to stand beside Roy. “I will not leave my aunts.”
“Sir, given her emotional response to my first two options, I think it best we discuss the last one in private.”
I can tell Roy’s considering booting me from the room. “I want to hear.”
“She’s right,” he agrees. “Be gentle about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Proctor focuses on me. “Wear the ring.”
I cradle the Coke to my chest like it’s a talisman against evil. What does Proctor see when he looks at me? A puzzle to be solved? How can he suggest I wear it? Doesn’t he know how unsettling that is? As he continues to focus on me, I switch my weight from one foot to the other. I’m tingling all over with the need to run, both to get away from this conversation and to get rid of the anxiety hop-skipping up my spine.
Still observing me, Proctor continues, “He’s watching you.”
My hands slightly shake, and I hate how he catches the movement. I can’t deal with this. I shrug off Roy’s attempt to hold me and walk to the French doors, turn around and walk back to the counter. I need to get out of here.
Proctor adds, “We’ll be watching.”
Is he trying to comfort me? Knowing I’m being watched by Roy’s men and my secret birthday giver? “Why would he give me toys for all these years and then suddenly an expensive gift? It doesn’t make any sense.” I point to the ring. “Must have been a different person.” As I say it, I realize my suggestion only makes things worse. “You’re suggesting that a man has been watching me grow up and all along thinking to have me when I’m mature?” I’m on a roll now, my anxiety finding an escape route through my mouth. Probably not the best thing I could do, but I’m not going to stand here and listen to this gibberish, which doesn’t make sense to me. “I was an infant when the gifts started. What sick fuck would do that?” I’m practically jogging in place. “I don’t buy it.”
He smiles. I’m chilled to the bone. With his dead eyes and his teeth bared, he resembles a wax figure come to life. “I see you’re upset.” He remains still. “And your input has merit. Blackmail was my first thought, but you’ve not been contacted. Unless…” He tilts his head to the side. “It’s meant as a warning to someone else. Someone close to you.”
“Who? Are you saying my aunts are in danger?”
“Proctor, enough for now. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”
“Yes sir.” He starts to leave and stops. “Is she to be put on the list?”
“Yes, Proctor, before all others.”
I’ve turned my back and wait until I hear the front door close. Roy tries to wrap his arms around me, but I twist out of his hold.
“I know he can be abrasive.”
“He’s…” I’m trying to be charitable here. “Not right.”
“He didn’t mean to upset you. He’s not good with people. He was trying to be kind.”
I whirl around, and all I can do is blink at his understatement of the year. “I can’t deal with this.” I head toward the foyer.
He grabs my wrist. “You can.”
“Look. I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not. I’m going upstairs and getting my shoes and going for a run because if I don’t I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” He stretches his neck from side-to-side. “You’re not running in the dark.”
“Then I’m going home.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
I stop resisting and go still. I don’t want to leave either. “I need…” I gaze down at his hand around my wrist. His fingers tighten slightly.
“You can tell me anything.”
Can I? Can I tell him how I could weep for my razor to cut a line of blood on my flesh? How I fantasize about his strong hands holding and spanking the compulsion out of me? That I’m attracted to his kindness as much as the danger that hangs over him like a haze. “I…want…” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Trust me.” His breath is a warm caress against my cheek.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Then we’ll do this my way. Come with me.” He pulls me by the wrist and yanks me along like a kid being dragged away from the pool.
I dig my heels in, and in one swift movement he turns and swings me into his arms and drapes me over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Stop!” I kick my legs until he clamps his arm over them.
He exits through the French doors and follows a brick path.
I try and brace with my hands against his back to keep from swinging as his long strides cover the distance like he’s on a moving walkway. I turn my head enough to see we’re heading toward a barn.
He opens the door, flicks on the lights, and gently places me on my feet.
I blink, acclimating to the bright fluorescents. Treadmills and stationary bikes and other machines I haven’t seen before dominate one side. Facing the cardiovascular section is a weight room area with a rack of free weights going from hand weights to Honda-sized. Two thick ropes hang from the ceiling over a padded mat. I follow up and up all the way to the rafters, where they’re connected with some type of bracket. The far side of the space contains an actual boxing ring.
He points toward the treadmills. “Come on.”
“I don’t have my shoes.” With him nudging me, I step on board as he hits buttons. The incline comes up, the belt rolls, and I’m walking fast to keep up. “This isn’t jogging. It isn’t going to help.” God, I sound like preteen with a bad attitude.
He doesn’t respond, but instead gets on the treadmill beside me and sets a jogging pace. “Do you want music?”
I shake my head. My breathing escalates as I work to keep up with the pace and the steep incline.
He pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the side of the mat. “Better?” he asks.
Not the escapism I get from running, because, well, I’m running away from my problems. Here, with Roy beside me, it’s an entirely different dynamic, yet the pressure has lessened.
“I think I can guess, but I want you to tell me what triggered it.”
I’m sweating. My bare feet are slapping on the treadmill. Meanwhile, next door, Roy has a steeper incline, is moving faster, and doesn’t even seem winded.
“From now on we talk this shit out.”
His pep-talk skills need some work. “No. What I need is a good, long run, is all.”
“We got all night,” he responds, increasing the speed.
I cut my eyes his way but refuse to look at him. “I shouldn’t be doing this with bare feet.”
“Why? Do you have flat feet?”
“No.” And we continue like this for I don’t know how long ’cause there’s no clock in this infernal place. My calves are burning. I’ve stopped trying to hide my heavy breathing. I can’t stand the silence anymore. “What is he?”
Roy slows his speed. “Proctor?”
And I decrease the incline before my shins fall off. “Yeah, Mr. Personality.”
“He’s brilliant.”
I shake my head. “You want me to talk. I’m talking, and you’re giving me nothing here.”
“You’re making fun of someone you don’t understand. I get it. Proctor creeped you out. And he is brilliant at what he does. So why don’t we get back to the reason we’re here?”
“Exactly what brilliant thing does he do?”
Unbelievably, he increases the speed until he’s jogging uphill. Fine, two can play this game. I put the incline to zero and increase the speed until I’m jogging along beside him.
“What list?” I was going to say more, but I’m out of breath.
“What triggered it?”
Seriously, he’s running me into the ground. I can’t keep up any longer. I’m exhausted. My legs hurt. My head hurts. My feet are numb. The compulsion is gone, but not the shame. Finally, I slam the red button, hop off the damn machine, and almost fall from the sudden lack of motion. “We’re here because I’m afraid,” I scream at the top of my lungs. “And because I’m a cutter. Okay, are you happy? Yes,” I scream, up into the rafters. “I cut myself because it’s the only way I know how to stop the pain. And I know how fucked up that is.” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m weak and pathetic and a victim. Is that what you want to hear?” Now I’m crying, and he’s walking towards me, and I can’t stand the thought of being comforted. “And I hate myself for it.”
He stops an arm’s length from me. “I can fix this.”
“Are you insane? No, you can’t.” I’ve moved to the ugly stage of crying. My nose is running and my eyes are swollen, but I can’t stop. “I’m broken,” I sob.
And while I have my breakdown, he’s calm and shirtless, which I shouldn’t notice, but I do. It makes me cry even more.
“You’re not broken.”
I sink onto the mat and wallow in self-pity.
“You were traumatized. It’s something I’ve seen way too much of, and it’s not because you’re weak or a victim or broken, but because you had something happen to you, something you had no control over. It wasn’t your fault.”
I use the bottom of his shirt I’m wearing to blow my nose.
“Jason is neutralized. We’ll know soon enough who’s sending the gifts.” He crouches next to me. “When I tell you I’ve got this handled, I do.”
“It’s not so simple.” I realize I’m still yelling and turn down the volume. “You can’t go back in time and fix what happened years ago. You can’t lay hands on me, and suddenly I’m cured.”
“I know.” He stands and reaches his hand out to me.
“I can do it myself.” I slap his hand away. “I’m not your responsibility.” And roll on my knees and stand.
He turns his wrist, checking the time.
“What, you got someplace to be?” Why am I such a bitch to him? “Go, I don’t care.”
Like a punctured tire, he blows out a long breath, emptying his lungs. “I hate seeing you suffer.”
Since I’ve kept my fuckedupedness hidden, I’ve never experienced how it could cause someone I care about pain. “I’m not your problem.”
“You”—he places his hands on his knees to look me straight in the eye—“are not a problem.” He shakes his head slightly and stands straight. “The cutting. It started with Charlie?” I nod. “Your scars…there aren’t many.”
I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice them. “A couple years after Charlie died, I stopped.”
“I see.” He grabs his shirt from the mat and slips it over his head. “So you resumed after that sack of shit Jason, who should not be walking this earth, attacked you.”
“I tried not to.”
“With me,” his tone gentler, “when we’re together, you feel safe, correct?”
“I do, but everything’s getting dredged up. The compulsion has passed, for now, but I know it’s coming back,” I whisper. “And it’s going to be bad.”
“Dredge it up. Get it out.” His vehemence rocks my back on my heels. “Pull it out by the roots and stomp it dead.” He’s pacing and raking his hair back. “You’re too much in your own head. Things get to rattling away in there, and you don’t know if you’re upside down or sideways.” He grabs my hands and holds them tight. “Nothing will make me think less of you.”
Even though he says I can tell him anything, I’m ashamed and dip my head and let my hair fall around my face. “You don’t know that.”
He doesn’t argue and releases my hands.
I’m spent and droop to the mat like a snow-burdened branch and sit with my knees drawn up and my arms around them.
With one hand he pulls his cell phone from his pocket, opens it, and places a call. “We’re running late.” He listens for a moment. “We’ll be there shortly.” He nods like the person on the other end can see him and disconnects the call, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
“What are we late for?”
“My cook has dinner waiting,” he responds.
Of course, he would have a cook, and she’d be a female and probably looks like a model.
He crouches and cups my face, lifting it with his large hands and peering into my eyes. “I’m here whenever you want to talk.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow.” I bite my lip when I see his pained countenance.
“You won’t be alone. Gavin will be here.”
I lean back. “I’m not talking to Gavin. I don’t even know him. You didn’t…?”
“He knows you have panic attacks, nothing more. And I meant you can tell him you need help. Remember the card I tried to give you?” I nod. “She’s good. She’s helped many of my employees.” Using his thumbs, he wipes the tears from my face. “We’ve all got scars; some are harder to see than others.”
“Have you talked it out with the therapist?”
His smile is relaxed. “Yes, many times. I’m a better man for it.”