Hidden Scars

by Amanda K. Byrne

  Taylor was eating his sandwich when she stepped inside. Leaving the door open, she handed him the water bottle, set the can on the desk top, and popped it open. The rush of sugar flooded over her tongue and she sighed.

  “You know how bad that shit is for you, right?”

  She sneered. “And? This is my caring face.”

  He gave her that little half-smile, and her heart fluttered. She really should have pushed him out of here. Except he was right, and she couldn’t move her hand without inflicting some severe pain on herself.

  She tore open the packet of ibuprofen with her teeth, tossed them back, and chased them with soda. “Tanner wanted a proposal for the performance tracker. I guess Jeremy didn’t do a good enough job selling it to him when they met the last time, because it’s perfect for what he needs it for.”

  “Tanner’s in what? Marketing?” He reached for his water bottle, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Yeah. He wanted something to use to keep tabs on his staff, how well they were doing and whether they were meeting quotas.” She told him where to find the statistics she’d compiled on Tanner’s company, and kicked off her shoes. Thankful she was wearing slacks today, she adjusted her pant legs and settled cross-legged into her chair. If she wasn’t doing the typing, she was going to be comfortable.

  Taylor glanced at her feet, a quick grin playing across his lips. “I like the birds.” He picked up a sandwich half and turned his attention to the computer screen. “You’ve got a template for proposals stored on your hard drive, right?”

  She blew out a breath. “Yeah. In the file called ‘Proposals.’”

  He found it, clicked it open, and started filling in the blanks. Unlike Jeremy, Taylor focused on the task at hand, and she fell into the easy rhythm they’d developed the last time they’d worked together on a client.

  They worked steadily, debating numbers, pulling in bits of information, discarding others. She got up and retrieved more drinks and ibuprofen for herself, and frowned when Taylor abandoned the keyboard, returning with more ice for her hand. She took it, grimacing at the cold seeping through the cloth.

  The afternoon sped up and dragged by turns, the proposal proving to be more difficult than she’d initially thought. She’d have never finished it by her self-imposed deadline without him. It burned. She shouldn’t have allowed her temper to get the best of her.

  They finished with an hour to spare. Though she hadn’t been the one manning the keyboard, she was worn out. Taylor was rolling his shoulders. “Five minutes. I need to shut down and grab a few things, and then we’re getting out of here.”

  “I can’t. I put off everything else to take care of this.”

  He bent down until they were nose to nose, his gaze fierce. “Sara.”

  “What? And don’t go all alpha male on me. I really can’t leave right now.”

  She yelped as he clasped her swollen hand. “And you really can’t work right now, either.” His eyes softened to their usual intensity. “Let me give you a ride home. More ice and pain killers will hopefully bring it down so you can use it tomorrow.”

  It was hard to argue with that. Her fingers were stiff and red, though pain was no longer shooting through her hand in rapid jolts. “You’re right,” she admitted. She hated that he was right. But going home and curling up on the couch with the BBC miniseries she’d recorded the night before sounded like a damn good idea. And Chinese. This day called for Chinese takeout.

  Maybe she could talk Taylor into sharing her takeout.

  With Taylor’s help, she shut down, slipped on her coat, and collected her purse. Her hand throbbed, and she started to worry if she’d done something more serious to it. She followed him into his office. “Taylor?”

  “Hmmm?” He was busy clicking through his email.

  “Could you…” He had to have experience with this sort of thing, because of where he grew up, didn’t he? “Are you sure I didn’t like, break my hand or something?”

  “Doubtful. C’mere.” He waved her around the desk, and she scooted her butt up on the edge while he ran his fingers over the knuckles. “Wiggle your fingers for me?” She did, the slightest movement making her cringe. Gentle pressure had her gasping, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. You’ll need more ice. Might not be able to work tomorrow, either.”

  A day off in the middle of the week didn’t sound too bad.

  A noise from the doorway had both their heads whipping around. Kaylin’s mouth was rounded in an exaggerated “O”.

  “Um. Sorry. Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.” Even from this distance, Sara could see the gleam of excitement in her eyes. She bit off a groan. As if there weren’t already enough gossip flying around. “Sara, Mr. Tanner sent an email through to the president, says thanks for being so prompt with the proposal. I thought you’d want to know,” Kaylin said. Emails to the company president were routinely forwarded to HR if they included complaints or accolades for the employees. Score another one for her file.

  Sara held off on the fist pump and nodded. Kaylin lingered in the door, obviously hoping to see more. She finally gave a tight smile and walked off.

  Sara slumped forward. “Shit.”

  “So what?” He tipped her chin up. “They talk about us more. Who gives a flying fuck?”

  “Me,” she said ruefully. “You. I’m ruining your reputation here, bud.”

  “Does it look like I care?”

  She studied his face, noting the mild amusement of his expression. “No.” Kissing him in the office was one thing she was not going to do.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, flicked back up to her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  He wasn’t about to get an argument out of her. The elevator ride stretched on, finally depositing them in the parking garage. The click of her heels over concrete as they walked to Taylor’s car chanted go home go home go home. She didn’t bother to squash the sigh as she collapsed into the passenger seat. Getting a ride home after a day like today was far better than having to deal with the bus. “Oh!” She dug through her purse, found her phone, and pulled up the number for her favorite Chinese restaurant. “Do you mind swinging by Jade Garden? I was going to place an order.”

  “Depends. Do I get some?”

  She pictured the two of them on her couch, Taylor sprawled beside her as she happily ate her way through a carton of sweet and sour chicken while watching Bleak House. She liked it. A lot. “Only if you like BBC period dramas.”

  He groaned, and the sound was so unlike anything she’d heard from him before she gaped at him. “One of these days, you’re going to discover the joys of watching shit blow up for no reason,” he said.

  “Fine. We can watch Die Hard on Saturday.”

  He slid a glance at her. “Deal.”

  She placed the order, and had to stop herself from digging in immediately when they picked it up. He dropped her at her house, rolling down his window and beckoning her to come to him. “I’m going to run home and change out of the monkey clothes. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” His hand snaked out and around the back of her neck, tugging her down. The kiss was fierce, and not nearly long enough, leaving her breathless. “Back soon.”

  All she could do was nod as she watched him back out onto the street. A simple, brief kiss, and she wanted a hell of a lot more. Trouble was not a big enough word to encompass what she’d gotten herself into.

  Chapter Ten

  The phone rang while she was attempting to put the Chinese food down without having her purse slip off her shoulder. She failed. The annoying electronic jangle sounded from the depths of her bag and the food slipped out of her grasp and onto the counter. She managed to right the bag before the contents spilled everywhere.

  By the time she fished her phone out of her purse, it had stopped ringing. The ID gave her a blocked number. She waited for it to ding with a voicemail. It didn’t. Shrugging, she set the phone on the counter next to the food and head
ed down the hall to change.

  Inside her bedroom, she stared at her closet. This was ridiculous. Taylor had already seen her without makeup, in her pajamas. He didn’t care what she wore. She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and her favorite sweatshirt, the hem coming well below her butt.

  She was hunting for a pair of thick wool socks she could have sworn she’d washed when her phone rang again. The socks were buried in the back of the drawer. She grabbed them and dashed back to the kitchen, dropping the socks as she snatched up her phone. “Hello?”

  “Sara Andrews?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Detective Chris Milan of the Sacramento Police Department. I was calling to let you know Samuel Thibodeaux has been paroled.”

  The floor beneath her dissolved. She was floating, her hand swollen and throbbing, the only thing keeping her tied to this world. Paroled? Her throat tightened and closed. She was being strangled. Sam was out.

  Words. She needed words. Speak. “How—” Her voice broke, and the crack annoyed her enough to center her. “How is that possible? He was supposed to serve fifteen.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “Ms. Andrews, I’m sorry. When we told you it wasn’t necessary to come and speak at the parole hearing, we honestly believed a letter would be enough. According to the warden, though, he’s been a model prisoner and he’s been complying with his court order therapist. She firmly believes he’s changed and is ready to return to society. The order of protection still stands. He’s not allowed to contact you in any way.”

  The order was a joke waiting to happen. Sam had never displayed stalker-ish behavior before, which is why the attack in Sacramento had been unexpected.

  That didn’t mean he wouldn’t start now, order of protection be damned.

  “Ms. Andrews?”

  “I’m here.” Cold seeped in, starting at her bare feet and working its way up and out. “Thank you for informing me.”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in. You have my number; call me if you have any questions.” He waited a beat, giving her a chance to respond. She couldn’t think of anything to say. “Have a good evening.” Detective Milan hung up before she could bark out a short, bitter laugh. A good evening. Her plans for a quiet night of Chinese and Dickens had been replaced by disbelief. Sam was on parole.

  It would be fine. Her parents weren’t about to tell Sam where she’d moved to. Neither was Krista. That was the sum total of people from before who knew where she was. Sam couldn’t leave the state without violating parole, right? Maybe she should inform Portland PD just in case.

  She stared at the Chinese food on the counter. She should set it out. Or put it away. She should call Taylor and tell him not to bother coming back tonight. She’d be terrible company. The thump on her front door had her jumping out of her skin. It was probably Taylor.

  She crept toward the front door, glad she’d neglected to switch on lights in the living room. The peephole was almost too high for her to reach, but the glimpse she got through it showed it was definitely Taylor on her doorstep. I am not going to throw myself at him. I don’t need to be coddled. I’m stronger than I was. I handled this before. I can do it myself this time, too. She pulled open the door.

  His smile came easier and quicker than it had when they’d first started spending time together. She couldn’t bring herself to do the same. Numb. She couldn’t feel anything. “Hi.” The word felt foreign in her mouth.

  The next few minutes were a blur. He clasped her elbow, steered her into the living room, and got her onto the couch. The lamp next to the couch came on. A blanket was tucked around her legs, and he vanished, reappearing with a glass of water. He handed it to her and sat at her feet, one hand on her ankle.

  The water felt strange going down, and did nothing to alleviate the odd numbness in her limbs. She clutched the glass with her good hand, staring at it until he pried it from her.

  She lost track of time. It was probably minutes; it could have been well over an hour. “The food. You should eat some of it before it gets cold.” That was how her mouth was supposed to work, wasn’t it? To form words, to force them out so they could be heard.

  He left her on the couch, and the sounds of silverware clinking against plates drifted out from the kitchen. He was being…Taylor. Not asking questions. Now she wanted to cry. Her throat ached as tears welled, blurring her vision. Now she wanted to sob all over him, grateful he wasn’t going to ask.

  She could keep it to herself, at least until she’d figured out what to do.

  The scent of savory Chinese preceded the appearance of Taylor in her living room, and he handed her a plate heaped with food. The portion of sweet and sour chicken was larger than the others on her plate, and she swallowed hard, blinking to clear away the tears. The way he could figure things out, like that sweet and sour chicken was her favorite, was scary and comforting. She wanted to crawl onto his lap and hold on tight.

  He picked up the remote from the coffee table and handed it to her, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. “What were you planning to watch tonight?”

  For a moment, she stared at him. He really wasn’t going to say anything. Nothing at all. His normal behavior hammered at her fog, breaking it apart wisp by wisp. “Bleak House. They reran part one last night.” The TV flared to life, and she located the program on her DVR and hit Play.

  She picked at her food, the story drawing her in, letting it wash over the memory of the past few hours, obliterating her anger with Jeremy, making her forget about her swollen hand, pushing Sam and his parole and the nasty phone call into the back of her mind. The sweet and sour chicken disappeared, followed by the egg roll. She set the plate on the coffee table without touching the moo-shu pork and the fried rice.

  At some point, Taylor rose and collected the plates, carrying them off to the kitchen. She’d started to wonder if he’d left without her noticing when he set an ice pack and a towel on the coffee table and stood in front of her, blocking her view of the TV. She picked up the remote, leaned around him, and paused the show. “What?”

  He nudged her out of her corner and sat, pulling her close enough her knees rested on his lap. He curled a hand around the back of her neck, hazel eyes intent. “You’re okay?”

  Was she? She was calmer. There were steps she could take to handle Sam. Her hand throbbed, and she winced. “Hand hurts, if that’s what you’re asking.” She knew he wasn’t.

  He brushed a kiss over her knuckles and picked up the towel and the ice pack, wrapping the towel around it. She placed it over her knuckles, then picked up the remote and restarted the program.

  Taylor was still watching her, his gaze weighing on her. His hand slid down, over her back, and she shifted closer. She leaned into him. She hated herself for taking comfort from his embrace. That she finally felt safe. She’d created her own safety all these years.

  But as his arms tightened around her, she knew she could move away at any time, and he wouldn’t come after her. So she stayed.

  * * *

  His brother Jamie’s most recent email wanted to shove its way into his thoughts. Focusing on Sara pushed it back. She was obviously upset about something. Upset to the point she appeared to be in shock.

  When no explanation was forthcoming, Taylor decided to make the evening as normal as possible. He started with the Chinese food she’d ordered. Clicking on the BBC crap she’d planned to watch was the next step, and he found himself drawn into Dickens’ classic tale.

  She’d set her plate aside after she’d eaten half of it, her attention on the screen in front of her.

  With Sara curled into him, an ice pack on her hand, he wondered if it was worth it to attempt to get it, whatever it was, out of her. It was big enough to scare her again.

  Gillian Anderson popped up onscreen, swanning around some dark cemetery. Sara snuggled closer. He’d hold his tongue. She’d tell him when she was ready. And if not, that was her choice.

  His thoughts drifted to Jamie’s message
. Tony Flaherty had heard he’d relocated to the West Coast. Tony wanted to talk to him. He had no desire to talk to Tony. It might be smarter to do so, though, especially if Tony was talking to his family. Tony didn’t make threats very often, because when he threatened, he followed through. Taylor had the scars to prove it. Finding out what the man wanted meant he could figure out a way to divert his attention.

  Times had changed. The Pretty Boys, according to Jamie, were losing ground in Boston, being forced out of Charlestown, little by little. If Tony wanted to get in touch, he had to want something, and it had to be something he thought only Taylor could get for him.

  He was going to do everything he could to keep Tony away from Sara.

  Her head grew heavy on his shoulder, and he slid a hand up into her hair. Soft. Soft and warm on his skin, and he imagined the rest of her would feel the same.

  He shook her gently, and her head came up, brown eyes blurry with fatigue. “I need to get going.”

  Her sleep softened mouth was a temptation, and he allowed himself to indulge. He took his time, drawing in her sigh as her lips parted, letting her deepen it. It was as soft and warm as her hair, wholly unstudied and natural. A temptation leading to a seduction. Her hand crept up his chest, her mouth moving away from his to kiss along his jaw. Christ. She found the spot on his neck that drove him crazy, nibbling at it. She inched closer and shifted to straddle him.

  Her moan as their hips rocked together shot straight to his dick. He stroked a hand under her sweatshirt, and it was his turn to groan when he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. Cupping her breast, he rubbed his thumb over her nipple, the point hardening under his touch.

  Breaking the kiss was the last thing he wanted to do. Self-preservation demanded he do it. Otherwise he’d be carrying her to the bedroom.

  Her frustration was evident. “I’m not going to break,” she grumbled.