Overprotected

by Jennifer Laurens

  His hand stroked my cheek. I was vaguely aware of the female officer chatting in hushed tones to someone. Then, she ushered everyone from the room and the door shut behind her.

  “Ashlyn?” Mother whispered.

  Colin gently urged me to turn so I could see her.

  Mother’s ashen face sagged, eye sockets like canyons, as if she’d taken two fists in the face. I crossed to her. Her free arm slipped around my back and clung to my moist clothes. She wept on my shoulder.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked

  She drew back, her tear-ravaged face blotchy. “Before we talk about him, I want to know what happened. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m all right.”

  The sight of Colin and Mother caused reassurance to wrap around me. This ordeal was over. My muscles went slack. I had to fight not submitting to the overpowering desire to collapse into sleep.

  I began from when I left the dinner table. Sweat clung to my skin as I neared the moment I woke, and found myself bound to a bed.

  Mother gasped.

  Colin’s chest rose beneath his arms, tightly crossed.

  “He had me tied with pink ribbon,” I said.

  Mother sucked in air.

  “And?” Colin’s sharp tone cut through Mother’s hysteria, silencing her. Her hand fluttered at her breastbone like she’d just swallowed something and might choke.

  “He kept saying he wasn’t a kidnapper, that he didn’t mean to take me—”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mother injected. “He is obviously psychotic—”

  “Fiona,” Colin snapped. Mother’s eyes bulged at him, but she pinched her lips. “What happened next?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “He told me he kidnapped me because Dad had taken me to the hotel where he took his mistress.” I glanced at Mother’s rapidly paling face. “Stuart didn’t like that.”

  “Well,” Mother’s brow cocked. “He’s not the only one.”

  “Fiona, please.” Colin slid her a glare meant to silence. “Then?” he urged.

  “He…” I swallowed. “Kissed me.”

  “How awful.” Mother covered her mouth with her hands.

  “I threw up all over him. He was a mess, so he untied me and took me to the shower. I head-butted him, shoved soap in his eyes and got away.”

  Mother wrapped around me again. “Darling. You’re safe now.”

  She released me.

  Colin remained unmoved by my admission, deciphering, but an edge of emotion caused his steady demeanor to twitch. Mother wiped her teary eyes with a tissue she plucked from a pocket.

  “When did you and Dad have the tracking chip implanted inside of me?” I asked.

  Mother blinked, but didn’t respond for a few long moments.

  Colin’s eyes deepened with—what? Had he known about the chip?

  “The minute your father was able to get his hands on one,”

  Mother explained. “You were eight. He was out of his mind with worry that anything like this would ever happen. I disagreed with it, but he does what he wants.” She tilted her head, and reached out her good arm her hand covering mine. “I’m sorry—I’m sure you were—”

  “I am shocked. And disgusted. Outraged. How come you never told me?”

  “It worked, that’s the important thing.”

  “Yes.” A flame burned inside of me. “But he did it without my consent.”

  “You were too young.”

  “I should have been told.”

  “You were kidnapped, Ashlyn. Neither one of us wanted that happening again.”

  “But it did happen again!” Frustration burned in my voice.

  Colin’s body tensed like a rabbit in a cage. Mother’s gaze flicked to him, then back to me.

  “Did you know?” I asked him.

  “Not until a few hours ago.”

  “You must think we’re depraved,” I said under my breath, sure he was at the end of endurance rope now.

  “He thinks no such thing!” Mother’s skin flushed red. “We had every right to take whatever precautions we saw necessary for your safety. A few months living under the same roof doesn’t give anyone the right to judge—”

  “Mother, calm down.”

  Mother steamed, and stood.

  “I’m not judging,” Colin boomed. Silence echoed in the room.

  Mother’s tight shoulders erected.

  “It’s been a long day for everyone,” Colin said, voice gentle.

  “I need a drink.” Mother crossed to the door. She hemmed a moment, then relented. “Do you want anything, darling?”

  I shook my head.

  She turned a raised brow to Colin. “Colin?”

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “They’d better have a Rockstar in this damned place.” The moment Mother left, the empty quiet suddenly tensed.

  Colin crossed to me. “What really happened with Stuart?”

  “I told you—”

  “I’ve studied victims of violent crime, they suppress things, it’s the first—”

  “I’m not suppressing anything,” I said. “I told you what happened, exactly like it happened.”

  “Ninety-eight percent of kidnap victims are sexually assaulted by their abductors. You need to be examined, to make sure you’re healthy and that he didn’t—”

  “He didn’t touch me. He kissed me, that was all.”

  Colin’s dark eyes slipped to my mouth and held a moment. Jaw twitching, he shoved a hand into his hair. He took one step and his face was inches from mine. “You’re telling me he tied you to a bed and didn’t take advantage of that?”

  My mouth hung open for a few long moments of disbelief. “I wasn’t raped.” The very thought of Stuart kissing me shot goose bumps all over my flesh and bile surging up my throat.

  I’d never seen Colin angry. Even knowing he was angry at Stuart—not me, grafted panic to my nerves and bones in a trembling that wouldn’t stop.

  The news channel was on the television, and the announcement of my name caused us to watch the screen. A photo of me flashed.

  “Ashlyn Adair was reportedly found shortly after midnight in a suburb of New Jersey, at the home of her ex-bodyguard, Stuart Reed.”

  The report ended with the promise of more news as it broke.

  Seeing my face on the screen caused a shiver of discomfort down my spine. My life had been so anonymous, to have my picture splayed for the world to see—the only reason Dad must have agreed to allow the exhibit was to aid in finding me.

  “Where is Dad, anyway?” I didn’t disguise the lividness roaring through my veins. I wanted to talk to him. Now. “Is he hiding?”

  Colin shifted. Swallowed. A pit opened in my stomach. “Did something happen to him?”

  “Your mother should talk to you.”

  The pit in my gut gaped wide. “Where is he?”

  Mother entered with a silver and gold can. “I can’t believe they didn’t have a Rockstar.” The weariness in her expression had perked some, like a flower after rain. A brief smile lit her lips. “But the nicest young man offered to run down the street to the deli and pick one up for me.”

  “Mother,” I started in her direction. “Where’s Dad?”

  Her stride slowed at my question, but she continued until she joined Colin and me in the center of the room. “He’s having a stint put in, darling. Nothing serious.” Then she held the can out to Colin with her good hand. “Would you mind, dear boy?”

  Colin opened the can and handed it to her. Mother offered me the first sip.

  I waved the can away. “Nothing serious? Sounds serious to me.”

  “He had a heart attack.” Mother stated the words matter-of-factly, sipping the Rockstar like the illness was commonplace.

  “Oh, no.” I hugged myself, and then felt the warm comfort of Colin’s arm slide in place around my shoulders.

  Mother shrugged. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “A
bout an hour after you were taken,” she said.

  “Was it me?” I asked. “Because of what happened?”

  “His heart attack is not your fault,” Mother’s tone was sharp.

  Colin took a deep breath. “The doctors only said that he needed to go in for surgery immediately.”

  I closed my eyes. “He doesn’t know they found me yet.”

  “He doesn’t.” Mother strolled across the floor to the couch, and sat. “But that’s a good thing. Wanting to make sure you’re okay will give him the will to live. That, and his woman.”

  When it was determined that I was ok, I was discharged. Mother, Colin and I were escorted to a waiting room.

  Mother laid down on the couch. Colin crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows and stared out over the city.

  My gazed remained fixed on the clock: 1:30

  3:15

  3:47

  “Mrs. Adair?” A soft voice startled us.

  A doctor stood in the door, waiting for our attention.

  Countenance edgy with anticipation, Mother rose from the couch.

  I joined her, and wrapped my arm around her waist. Colin came away from the window where he’d been staring out at the city lights, twinkling as if they adorned steel Christmas trees.

  Dad lay in a bed, his still form dressed in a blue and white hospital gown. His eyes were closed. The sight was like a punch in the gut, knocking my breath out. The nurse attending him was adjusting his IV.

  Mother let go of me and moved to the side of Dad’s bed. Her drawn features didn’t perk any, not with the murky remnants of their marriage lingering in her gaze.

  “He’ll be tired when he wakes up,” the nurse said. “Should be in about an hour.” She turned and left.

  My legs moved to Dad’s bed like they were cast in cement. With the news of an hour’s wait before he came out of the anesthesia, my body yearned for sleep. I settled for standing opposite Mother at Dad’s bedside. Colin showed signs of exhaustion by taking the only chair in the room and falling into it.

  Mother stared at Dad’s face. What was she thinking? Somehow, I doubted her mind was brimming with happy memories at that moment, and that saddened me. Dad, powerful, never-failing Dad lay not with the easy, natural comfort of sleep but in dormant anguish.

  A loud, tired, sigh of concession escaped Mother’s lungs. She left Dad’s side and Colin vacated the chair for her. She lowered herself into it with weary effort.

  No one spoke. I gently sat on the foot of Dad’s bed, my nerves stretched. Dad’s condition was precarious.

  My world was crumbling like Mother’s soggy, used tissue.

  Colin now leaned against the wall. His eyes hung on mine without a blink.

  6:20 am

  Mother fell asleep in the chair. Her head was tilted back, mouth gaping open, a raw snore zigzagging from her lungs. Her hand hung to the side, empty Rockstar can on the floor.

  My gaze flicked to Colin’s continually to see if he was watching me. Finally, I could take no more. I eased off the bed and crossed to him, stopping directly in front of him.

  The concern drawing his brows together softened a little. He reached out and skimmed my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’m so sorry, Ash.”

  I nodded. “I’m okay now. I took his hands in mine and held them tight. “Everyone who has ever done anything to me has been someone Dad has brought into my life—Melissa. Stuart.”

  Colin shook his head. “The irony.”

  A low groan came from Dad and his foot moved beneath the white sheet and blanket. I hurried to his side. His lids labored apart, his gaze opening directly on me. His milky-white eyes widened, then pinched closed. Tears squeezed out between his lashes and streamed down his cheeks.

  “Dad, I’m here.” I grasped his hand, shocked at his weakened grip.

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  Disbelief struggled to leave Dad’s eyes as they searched mine.

  His shoulders buckled. “I’m so sorry.”

  My questions had to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hours later, Colin, Mother and I were escorted down to the parking garage and into a waiting unmarked police car. Difficult as it was to leave Dad, I felt like I clung to the branch of a tree while a tornado whirled around me.

  My gaze volleyed between the buildings we passed and Colin. At one point, I caught Mother watching me and I forced aside the gnaw I had inside to continue to look at Colin and steadied my gaze out the window. “We’re not going to the Ritz?” I asked, seeing that the car was headed for the townhouse.

  “Of course not,” Mother scoffed. “You’re coming home.”

  I could see why Mother was exerting control, at the same time, I hated being a pawn.

  In front of the townhouse, news vans, parked along the street—some double parked—opened, and reporters and camera men hopped out and jogged over. My palms moistened. Cameras flashed the moment we pulled up next to the curb. Voices shouted questions.

  Colin surveyed the surroundings with hawk-like concentration.

  “NYPD has officers posted outside.” He looked at Mother.

  “Thankfully. I couldn’t deal with this alone.” She, too, seemed awed and frightened of the crowd hunkered down in front of the townhouse.

  “What do they want?” My voice sounded too small.

  Colin’s dark eyes slid to mine. “You.”

  He leaned forward, to address the driver. “Take us to Eighty Sixteen Charles Street.”

  The officer nodded and sped away from the snapping jaws of the crowd we left behind.

  “Where are we going?” Mother’s free hand gripped the door handle as the car surged forward.

  “My place.” Colin delivered the information with authority.

  Mother blinked, as if shocked he’d take the reins in his hands. “I need my toiletries. Fresh clothes. My own bed.”

  “Not tonight. You wouldn’t sleep with that mob outside.”

  “The police assured me they would take care of things.”

  “Their presence will help, but do you honestly feel like you could nod off with a pack of wolves outside your front door?”

  “No,” I said. The thought caused more sweat to glaze my skin. “I don’t want to be here.”

  Mother’s rigidity relaxed as she seemed to ponder his suggestion.

  “All right. I want you to make a statement on behalf of the family tomorrow.”

  Colin nodded.

  We drove through traffic toward lower Manhattan. We didn’t say anything more until we reached Colin’s apartment building, a brick, ten-story place with crumbling cement steps out front.

  Colin unlocked the main door. A waft of musty air barraged my senses. He led us up one set of stairs to the second floor and slipped his key into a door marked 202 A. “It’s a small but it’s away from the media.” His gaze shifted to Mother. “You two can have my bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” she replied.

  The moment I stepped over the threshold, weariness thickened my limbs. He flicked on one overhead light and a dull, warm color of gold doused the room. Colin’s place. The white walls were empty, the floor was wood but clean, and the small room was bare but for a plaid blue and black couch and a wooden crate he used as a coffee table. A picture of his parents was on the crate.

  Colin held the door open and Mother followed me inside, surveying the place with alarm in her eyes. “Well.”

  I elbowed her gently in the ribs.

  Colin shut, locked, and bolted the door. “Like I said, it’s not much.

  But no one knows we’re here. The bedroom and bath is in the back, through the kitchen.” He started toward the kitchen: about the size of one of our hallways at the townhouse, allotted with the necessities: stove, sink, and mini fridge.

  Another door off the kitchen led to a bedroom just big enough for a queen-sized bed covered in a black bedspread with blue pillows. Moth
er stood in the door, her hand patting her breastbone.