Hero

by Samantha Young

  “Stabbed?” He stumbled toward me, his hands reaching out unsurely.

  I flinched back from his touch and he froze.

  “When?” he whispered.

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “A few weeks ago? Shouldn’t you be at home recovering?”

  “I had to come see you.”

  “What was so urgent—”

  “The police asked me if there was anyone in my life that had a grudge against me.”

  Realization dawned on my father with the impact of a swift kick to the gut. He slumped down onto his armchair and stared up at me in horror. “You think I had something to do with this?”

  I quashed the guilt his reaction stirred in me. “No. But for a brief moment I did. I wondered to myself what my leaving did to Mom and to your relationship. For a moment I thought about the man who was capable of leaving a woman to die and I wondered if blaming his disloyal daughter for his own crapshoot of a life could make him unstable.”

  “That’s—”

  “Far-fetched, I know.” I sighed and sat down wearily on the sofa. “But I’ve been lying in bed these last few weeks and I can’t get it out of my head that the thought even crossed my mind. I’ve been protected and coddled in a friend’s apartment, scared of what’s outside, but even more scared of how messed up I am over you. So I had to come see you.”

  Silence fell between us.

  Finally my father cleared his throat. His voice was thick. “I am not this monster you’ve made me up to be in your head.”

  “No?” Tears burned in my eyes. “How could you leave a woman who had a little boy to take care of … How could you leave her to die? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t have lived with myself all these years.”

  His own eyes were bright with tears and I was surprised he maintained eye contact with me. When in the wrong, or lying, or being evasive, my father had a habit of looking at the ground, or anywhere but into my eyes. “I was in the kind of denial I didn’t know existed, Lexie. I coped with it because I switched it off. I didn’t allow myself to think of her as the vibrant woman she’d been, a confused, lonely, beautiful woman, who loved her kid more than anything in this world. But like me she was weak and she could be selfish. It was many years until she began to haunt me. I don’t know what happened, I just know that the excuses I made to myself, the rationalizations, they burned up into ash in my mouth. I couldn’t stop seeing her face. That’s when I had my breakdown over it, when I told you and your mother.”

  “So you do feel remorse? Just not enough to apologize to the man who lost his mother and father within months of each other?”

  My dad looked away, his fingers biting into his armchair. “Apologize? What the hell kind of apology could I give him now? Not one that would matter. I let a woman die because I was afraid and I was weak.” He looked back at me. “You have to come to terms with the man I am, Alexa. I’ve had to. I’m not a perfect man. Far from it. I never will be. I’m a weak man and for a long time I was spoiled.”

  Tears dripped off my chin. “Tell me one thing. Did you love my mom? Me?”

  His mouth quivered. “I did. I do. I just … I was never cut out to be a husband and a father. I’m not built that way.”

  It was the sad, horrible truth, but there it was. There was no magic solution to finding a father who would take care of me whenever I needed him, whose unconditional love would soothe the rejection of others, whose love for me would always exceed his love for himself.

  My father would never be that kind of dad.

  Yet there was a small measure of satisfaction in witnessing the change in him since the last we’d spoken seven years ago. There was self-awareness in him that hadn’t existed before, and it gave me something at least to know that he was fully aware of his shortcomings. It wasn’t enough to ease the ache, and it still didn’t give me a father, or bring Caine’s family back to him.

  I wondered then if that little hole inside me would ever go away, or if I’d just have to get used to it, and hopefully one day meet someone who would distract me from what was missing by giving me a love that eclipsed it.

  “Can I get you tea? Coffee?” my father asked uncertainly.

  Feeling more pain in my stomach, I nodded. “Tea, please. And a glass of water. I need to take some Percocet.”

  Somehow he refrained from giving me a scolding look, realizing that any fatherly admonishment would not be welcome from him.

  The door at the back of the room closed behind him as he disappeared into the kitchen. Suddenly exhausted, probably from an adrenaline dive, I rummaged through my bag for my phone. I frowned as I flicked the screen open and discovered I had ten missed calls from Caine.

  Hadn’t he gotten my note?

  I sighed, even more exhausted at the thought of dealing with his stubbornness. The man was quite happy to watch me walk out of his life for good, just as long as I’d healed up physically first!

  Idiot.

  I threw my phone back in the bag and slumped on the sofa.

  A loud clatter followed by a heavy thud made me jerk upright. “Dad? Are you okay?”

  Nothing.

  I heard my pulse start to race.

  “Dad?” I said more loudly and cautiously stood up so as not to tug on my injury. “Dad, are you okay?” I made my way toward the door and pushed it open only to freeze at the sight of my father sprawled across the kitchen floor.

  I moved, to rush to him, only to be yanked back into the solid heat of a hard body. Strong arms tightened around my chest. The silver of metal flashed across my vision.

  Terror and adrenaline shot through me and without even thinking I heaved back with all my strength, slamming our attacker into the cabinets behind me. A male grunt of pain sounded and his grip loosened enough for me to tear away from him.

  My feet slipped on the tile floor as I yanked open the door to the living room. I propelled myself forward into the room, just catching myself on the side table. Framed photographs crashed into my mother’s favorite vase, the glass shattering behind me as I raced for the front door. I was drawn up sharply four feet from it.

  Pain brought stinging tears to my eyes as he grabbed at my hair, hauling me backward. I tugged, crying out in agony at the pressure on my scalp as I attempted to break his grasp.

  But it was too late and he clamped an arm around my waist.

  Every ounce of fear I’d felt over the last few weeks coalesced inside me, turning from something cold into molten fury. I screamed in outrage, pulling my arm out and then slamming my elbow up high behind me. I connected and heard a satisfying howl of pain as I launched myself toward the door.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Hands clawed at my jacket, dragging me backward. I kicked and screamed, jabbing my elbows back, but he took the blows, and with a strength that overpowered me he wrestled me to the floor.

  Shock moved through me as a hooded face came into view. Hard dark eyes glittered down at me. Eyes I didn’t recognize in a face that was shrouded by a black ski mask. All I could see were the eyes and thin pale lips.

  The nothingness of his face, the emptiness in his gaze, was terrifying.

  I fought harder.

  I felt the warm trickle of blood, followed by the burning sting of a cut on my arm.

  He’d sliced me as I grappled with him.

  “Stupid bitch,” his deep voice hissed. He let go of one of my arms to drive his fist down into my face.

  Fire spread out across my cheek, stinging my nose and eyes and dazing me momentarily. I blinked the overabundance of water out of my eyes, trying to focus away from the pain to the man.

  I saw the flash of silver again, this time lowering slowly to my throat.

  “Missed last time. Stupid going for the gut. Too many variables.”

  I couldn’t buck, or shrug him off, for fear the knife would slice right through my skin. “Who are you?” I tried to stall him so I could think.

  Think, Lex, think, think, THINK!

  “Wouldn’t a gu
n have been easier?” I wheezed out, surprised by my thoughts and questions. More than anything, more than who he was or why he was doing this, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if he’d used a gun from the beginning he would probably have killed me already.

  Lexie, stop! I shouted at myself, feeling insane. I needed to get out of this, not ponder my assailant’s reasons for weapon of choice!

  The guy’s cold eyes suddenly flashed with emotion. “Guns are for pussies.”

  He pressed down with the blade.

  A loud crash behind him made his head whip around toward the front door. As his face tilted upward, a huge fist appeared, slamming down and jerking his head back with so much force blood from his nose sprayed across my face.

  His weight was yanked off me, and the knife clattered to the floor from his weakened grasp.

  In awe, I struggled to get up, my hand reaching for my throat to feel the small cut that he’d made … but my gaze was on the tornado that had just entered my childhood home.

  Caine.

  Rage unlike anything I’d witnessed before emanated from every pore in Caine’s body as he grabbed my attacker by the front of his hoodie and lifted him clean off his feet. He crashed him against the wall so hard pictures shook off from their hooks.

  The attacker swung out at Caine, clipping him across the jaw. I reached for the knife and attempted to get to my feet.

  I glanced over at Caine, ignoring the ache in my stomach, ready to help if he needed me. The hilt of the knife handle practically melted around my grip with the heat of my emotions.

  Caine threw another punch, this time to the attacker’s gut, and he winded him. As the attacker’s head bent over, Caine brought his knee up and forced the guy’s nose to connect with it.

  I heard a crack and the agonized muffle it caused.

  From there I watched in suspended horror as Caine beat the man. He punched him until he couldn’t stand, and once he was on the floor he ripped the mask off, revealing the bloodied face of a stranger. Caine punched him again. And again.

  And again.

  “Caine,” I whispered, wanting him to stop. “Caine, stop!” I hurried over to him and without thought of his reaction I placed a hand on his shoulder.

  My touch halted him, however, and he looked up at me.

  Tears sprang to my eyes at the stark fear I saw mingling with his fury.

  For me.

  “He’s down,” I said softly.

  Caine turned back to the man who was making gurgling, choking noises from the back of his throat. He coughed, his lips parting slightly, and a bubble of blood popped between them.

  “Who are you?” Caine demanded.

  He groaned and shook his head.

  I held the knife out to Caine. He took it and reversed the tables on the son of a bitch. Caine pressed it against his throat and repeated, “Who the fuck are you?”

  When he got no response Caine pressed harder and blood began to color the blade’s edge. “I don’t think you realize how much I want to kill you. And I will. It’s called self-defense and I’ve got plenty of money for fancy lawyers who’ll make the court see it my way.”

  Still nothing.

  Caine bent down, his nose almost touching the man’s. “You touched my woman,” he said, his voice guttural with his rage. “I’m itching to send you straight to hell, you piece of shit. I am not bluffing.”

  “O—k—” The attacker coughed, lifting an arm that fell limp before it even got a few inches off the floor. “Matt … hew … Hall … Holland. Hired … me.”

  My knees buckled and Caine turned, shock in his eyes at the revelation, just in time to watch me hit the floor.

  “Lex!” He scrambled off the hit man and over to me as I braced over on all fours, trying to catch my breath. His hand slipped through my hair to curl around my nape. “Baby …”

  My half brother? Someone I’d never even met had hired someone to kill me?

  Nausea rose inside me.

  I pushed Caine away in time as I vomited bile on my mother’s lacquered hardwood floors.

  My hair was pulled back from my face and Caine’s heat enveloped me.

  I jerked my head up at the realization his attention was not on our attacker.

  We looked back at the bloodied criminal to see he had struggled up to a sitting position, but he was looking through his one eye that wasn’t completely swelling shut toward the kitchen doorway. In unison Caine and I swung our heads around to follow his gaze.

  My father stood in the doorway, blood trickling down his forehead, and he had a shotgun pointed at our attacker. “Don’t worry,” he said gruffly. “This bastard isn’t going anywhere.”

  Assured my father had things well in hand, Caine tentatively touched my arm. “Lex, you’re bleeding. You need an ambulance.” He curled his arm around me protectively and I leaned my head on his shoulder.

  “I’m okay. Let’s just call the police to come and arrest this piece of shit. But they might want to send an ambulance for him.” I stared over at him to see his eyes were still trained on my father. I sneered at the fear I saw in him. Just a bully with a shiny knife. “I bet you’re rethinking that gun now, huh?”

  CHAPTER 31

  They stitched my arm up at Valley, the local hospital, with Caine and my father hovering over me. My dad had a minor concussion, but other than that, and being a little shaken up, he was okay.

  Both he and Caine were ignoring the giant elephant in the room and using me as the excuse to do so.

  “I’m fine,” I assured them for the hundredth time. I had a cut on my arm, a swollen nose and eye, and my stomach was burning, but none of that mattered compared to my emotional state.

  The police had taken our statements. Caine stood there in his blood-speckled shirt and told us that he’d jumped on a plane to Chester as soon as he got my note and that was why he’d arrived so shortly after me. We told them everything about my previous attack, and the officers contacted Boston PD to check out our story. We were informed we’d have to wait around a little longer, and a little longer had turned into more than a few hours. I was desperate to get home to Boston. I’d never felt such bone-weary tiredness, and I wanted somewhere quiet so I could process the violence and the terrifying absurdity of what had just happened to me.

  And although there had been times I’d thought about getting Caine in a room with my father and my father apologizing and somehow everything magically working out, the reality was much different. A surge of protectiveness rose inside me for Caine. I didn’t want him to have to be in the same room with the man who had destroyed his family. It was difficult, though, because I also was grateful to my father for being there today and for being in charge in a way I’d never seen before. In that moment he’d reminded me so much of Grandpa.

  “Miss Holland?” The policemen who had questioned us, Sergeant Garry and Sergeant Tailor, filed into the private room just off the ER ward.

  “Hey.” I nodded wearily in greeting.

  “You doing okay?” Garry asked. He was a big bruiser of a guy with hard, rugged features and kind eyes. His partner, in contrast, was only an inch or so taller than me, wiry, and wore a perpetual look of suspicion.

  “Yes.” I tried to rein in the impatience I was feeling. “He talked, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, he was desperate to talk,” Tailor replied. “Wants to make a deal.”

  “So?”

  Garry took another step toward me, compassion written all over his face. “The perpetrator’s name is Vernon Holts. He’s got a record a mile long from petty theft to assault. During a search of his house on one occasion, they found a massive weapons collection.” He gave me a pointed look. “Knives, swords … anything with a blade.”

  “There’s a surprise,” I muttered.

  Caine’s hand slipped into mine.

  “He said he was hired to kill you by a Matthew Holland. Holts claims this man is your half brother.”

  “He is.” I tried to wrap my head around the rev
elation. It was just too surreal. Like I was standing outside myself, watching this play out in a movie. “But I don’t understand …” I searched Caine’s face for answers. “The article about me came out after the attack. How did Matthew know about me?”

  “Maybe he found out some other way,” Caine mused.

  “That still doesn’t explain why he wanted to hurt me.” I looked over at my father, who was standing silently in the corner. “Do you know why?”

  He shook his head, looking lost. “I haven’t spoken to Matthew in years …”

  “It’s my fault.” My grandfather’s voice startled me, making me jump.

  My heart began to pound at the sight of him entering the room. “What are you doing here?”

  He stepped toward me, and the officers watched him warily. He was ashen, his expression stark. “Caine called me. I got on a plane.” He anxiously searched my face. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m going to be okay,” I said. “Now, what do you mean it’s your fault?”

  “I changed my will.” His shoulders slumped with guilt and he faced the officers. “I’m Edward Holland. Alexa and Matthew’s grandfather.” He returned his attention to me. “It was time for me to do something right and not always put the Holland family ahead of everything else. I was proud of you … and I felt impotent not being able to take care of you like family should. Matthew wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it bit him in the ass,” he said with venom. “I changed my will. Matthew has had every advantage in life handed to him and he’s a spoiled brat as a result. In the event of my death and my wife’s, you would be left with sixty-five percent of our assets. I didn’t know Matthew had made a deal with my attorney that included informing Matthew if I changed my will. I found out yesterday during a family … discussion … about Alexa. The bastard let it slip.”

  Aghast, I couldn’t even speak.

  “Sir.” Sergeant Garry stepped toward Grandpa. “Are you saying that the motive behind Matthew Holland’s attack on your granddaughter is an inheritance dispute?”