As Long As You Both Shall Live: A Christian Contemporary Romance with Suspense (Dangerous Series Book 2)

by Linda K. Rodante

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Impatient. You know I’ve got three sets of locks here.” She flipped the bolt near the handle. The knob shook, and the door jiggled. “Hold on, I’m not through. You’re the one that added all these locks.” She took the chain off.

  The door handle shook once more. She stopped, hesitating with her hand raised toward the last lock.

  “John?”

  No answer.

  Her stomach tightened. The deadlock held against another shaking. She moved to the peephole. Why hadn’t she done that first?

  She put one eye to the hole then jerked away. No. She fumbled with the chain lock, hands shaking, trying to get it back in place.

  “Look, open the door.” Dean Strasburg’s voice assaulted her ears. “I've been here all night waiting for the boyfriend to leave.” A moment’s pause, and he said in a softer tone, “Come on, Sharee. I just want to talk with you. We never talked.”

  He’d waited all night? Then perhaps Ted hadn’t caused the accidents. Dean fit the profile much better. And he would never believe that John had slept on the couch. She’d stopped Dean’s sexual advances just as she had others; and he’d waited longer than most to push that agenda. As their relationship progressed, his frustration grew. Frustrations, she emphasized to herself, frustrations that included her close relationship with her parents and with God.

  “We’re in the 21st Century, for pity’s sake,” he’d said one day. “You need to throw half this religious stuff out the window.”

  It had shocked her. He’d presented himself as a passionate Christian, attending church with her numerous times. The passion, she realized later, centered on the physical, even if he’d waited to express it. His words that day had begun to open her eyes to who he really was.

  The pounding increased. “Open the door.”

  She backed away. How many times had he lost his temper? How many times had she been afraid? But not until she challenged him about his relationship with God had he actually hit her.

  Now his voice lowered in a way she remembered, cajoling. “Come on, Sharee, I’m worried about you. It was hard seeing you in the hospital. Let me in, please.”

  She said nothing, but stepped to the end table near the sofa. Her purse and phone lay on it, sprawled there from last night. She grabbed the phone.

  “Sharee,” Dean’s voice lowered, but she heard the change. “The boyfriend spent the night.” His quick, harsh laugh followed. “What happened to all that self-righteous purity of yours?” The door handle shook once more.

  She punched in John’s number.

  “Sharee?” John’s voice came quick and warm.

  “He’s here, John.” She tried to keep her words even.

  “Who’s there?”

  “He’s pounding on the door. He wants me to let him in.”

  “Who?” His voice changed, “Don't open the door.”

  “No.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home. In the living room.” Her voice shook along with the door. The pounding grew. “Do you hear him?”

  “Yes.” The decimal level of John’s voice jumped. “Sharee, there's no way he can get in; but get into the bedroom, lock that door, hang up, and call 911. I’m on my way.”

  Sharee sucked in her breath. Dean stood at the wide living room window now, watching her.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s at the window.”

  “Can he see you? What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just standing there. Watching.”

  “Okay. Get into the bedroom where he can’t see you. Close the door. Lock it. Call 911.”

  She took a step backward. Dean’s eyes never left hers. “John…”

  “I’m on the way. Get into the bedroom. Are you there yet?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, watching Dean’s eyes, feeling as she had before—almost hypnotized by their magnetism. She shivered.

  “Okay. Close the door; lock it.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Close the door.”

  Her hand shot out, shutting it against Dean’s gaze. She stumbled backward, hitting the bed, dropping hard onto the mattress.

  “Sharee?

  “Yes?”

  “Is the door closed? Locked?”

  “There is no lock.”

  “Put something in front of it.”

  Her gaze flew around the room. Nothing she could handle without some effort.

  “Who is it?” John asked.

  “It’s Dean.”

  “The guy at the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put something in front of the door. I’m hanging up. I’m calling 911.”

  “John…”

  “Wait for the police. For me. Do not come out of that room for anyone else.”

  The phone went dead. Silence settled over her. The pounding had ceased. What was he doing? Fear traced its finger up her spine. She stood.

  A moment later, she pulled her desk and chair in front of the door. A box of things she had for The Salvation Army, her books, pillows from the bed—all went on top of the desk—anything to stop him and buy time if needed.

  John had said he couldn’t get in, but she’d flipped the bolt and hadn’t locked it again. She knew people said the chain locks were pretty easy to get past. That left the deadbolt John had installed.

  Lord, let it hold. She looked for a weapon, picked up the tall lamp from the bedside table, unplugged it, took off the shade, hefted it in her hand. Then she sat back on the bed and twirled the cord around the lamp, holding it like a club...and waited.

  “He can’t get in,” she said aloud. The window was up to code. Only a hurricane with 130 MPH winds could break it.

  Her phone rang. She grabbed it and fumbled it open, shaking. So much for having no fear.

  “Did you call the police, Sharee?” Dean asked. “Like before? Did you?”

  She punched the end button. It rang again immediately. She jumped and backed away. The phone continued to ring. She inched forward, looked down and snatched it up.

  “John, he called!”

  “Who? Dean?”

  “Yes. He called my phone.”

  John muttered something.

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “Someone’s trying to get in.”

  “Into the bedroom?”

  “No, the phone.”

  “It could be 911—calling you. Or him. Don’t answer. One of your neighbors had already called 911. Thank God.”

  “How did he get my number?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can have it changed. Do you hear anything now?”

  “No.”

  “He probably left. But stay there. I’m turning into your street.”

  Silence filled the room. Her hand tightened on the phone.

  “Do you know his car?” John asked, breaking the silence.

  “He did have a black Ford Explorer.”

  “I’m making a circuit. I don’t see an Explorer nor anyone in front of your place. Nothing looks suspicious.” The quiet stretched. “Nothing in back. Sharee, I told them you had a restraining order against him at one time, that he had assaulted you physically once before. But I didn’t know for sure.”

  “He did.” She heard him curse under his breath. “John!”

  “Go on. What did he do?”

  “He…he hit me, and I ran. Slapped me, actually. But so hard he knocked me down.” Silence filled the line. “John?”

  “You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking. Okay, I’m parked out front. I hear sirens. I’m going to wait for the police. Stay there.”

  “I will.”

  “They’re pulling up now.”

  A few minutes later, her phone rang again. “It’s okay. He must have left. No one’s here. I’ve got the key. I’ll let us in.”

  She looked at everything piled in front of the bedroom door and felt the fear drain out of her. “Okay, but it w
ill take me a minute to come out. I’ve got to move all this stuff.” Better safe than sorry, her dad always said. She set down the phone and began to drag things away from the door.

  Voices sounded in the living area.

  “Sharee?”

  “I’m almost out.” In a minute, she opened the door. John gave her a quick hug and a searching look. “I’m fine.”

  A deputy sheriff stood just behind him. She waved at the chairs and sofa and dropped onto the sofa. John sat beside her, his arm circling her shoulders.

  The deputy took a chair across from them. “Let me get your name and some other information, and you can tell me what happened.”

  Sharee described the previous events with Dean, the restraining order, the car accidents, and then his visit to the hospital.

  After a few more questions about today’s incident, the deputy flipped his book closed. “You might have felt threatened today, but, from what you’ve said, there was no actual threat made.”

  Beside her, John stiffened.

  “There is history, however. You had a restraining order—for a reason. We can question him, but we can’t charge him with anything. And the questioning might make things worse.” He walked to the door and inspected the locks before glancing at John. “You’ve got some decent locks and bolts here I see.”

  “John installed them after I came back from the hospital.”

  John sat forward. “How do we stop this guy if all you can do is talk to him?”

  “It might make him think twice if we corner him at work. You both stay alert.” He tipped his head in Sharee’s direction. “You want to make sure these bolts are always fastened. Be careful coming and going, getting in and out of your car. Use the peephole like you did today. Don’t walk into a situation. If you see him, walk away, drive away. Don’t wait. Don’t talk.”

  When they were alone, John began to pace the room. “What else needs to happen before they take this seriously?”

  “At this point, I think their hands are tied.”

  “Ours, too.” He swung around. “How did you get involved with someone like that?”

  She frowned, feeling defensive, not sure if the anger in his voice was aimed at Dean or at her.

  He stepped around the trunk she used as a coffee table. “You always hear that women in abusive relationships have low self-esteem, or have been abused at home. So, they’re looking for someone to fill that gap. But you’re not like that. You and your family are close. You have friends at church. Why did you go out with him?”

  “You sound like it’s my fault.”

  “No, I’m not saying that.”

  “Aren’t you?” Emotion rocketed through her. She couldn’t keep the hard edge out of her own words. "The reasons you just lined up are all the woman’s fault.”

  “I was just repeating what others have said.”

  “And these are all experts, right?” Did he think the abuse was her fault? She stood and walked past him. “You’re judging me. Blaming what Dean did on me.”

  He frowned. “No. I didn’t mean…”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant that…”

  “Well?” The word snapped, challenged.

  He studied her. “You know, I’m not sure.”

  “Dean always made me feel that whatever went wrong was my fault. That’s what abusive men do. That’s what you’re doing.”

  His whole body stiffened. “What?” The word came sharp and startled.

  “I think that was clear.”

  “Yeah, it was; and it was a low blow.”

  She stared. He stared back. Emotions tugged each way. She needed to get hold of them. He wasn’t Dean. She knew that. But she wanted to make things clear. She wasn’t taking blame for another man’s abusive behavior.

  “All right, that was as low as yours. Blaming me for something that’s not my fault.”

  “I did not mean to do that. I’m angry at Dean and at what happened when you dated him. And confused.” He paused. “What I said a few moments ago is all I know. I can’t grasp why or how you—or any woman—would become involved with an abusive man or stay with him.”

  Sharee walked back to the couch and sat down. She couldn’t blame him for that. She hadn’t understood it herself. She’d become entwined—walked into the spider’s web—before she knew where she was. Lynn had joked about her being desperate, and maybe she had been.

  “Can we talk about this?” His question interrupted her thoughts.

  She’d told him no before because she didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to go through it again; but he should know. He deserved to know. He had asked her to marry him and that meant sharing herself at a deep level. Could she extract the emotions and memories she’d hid?

  Hid? Something sharp jolted her upright. Hadn’t she given this to the Lord and forgiven Dean? Why the sudden resistance?

  “Sharee?”

  She nodded, and he lowered himself beside her.

  “Give me a minute.”

  His hand covered hers. “As many as you need.” His voice had changed, softened.

  The words and the tone sliced through her fear, her anger. What was she afraid of? John wasn’t Dean. How many times did she need to tell herself that? The difference between the two men bordered the Grand Canyon in size.

  She inhaled and entwined her fingers through his. “Okay.”

  “Take another breath.”

  She slid him a smile. “I can tell you about me. Not everyone is the same, but there are similarities. First, I didn’t know the warning signs. I believed what he said, what he presented. He acted protective and attentive.” She stopped and gave him a meaningful look.

  “You’re saying I’m like him?” His voice grated in a way that told her he didn’t like the comparison.

  “No, I’m not saying that. Dean’s attention and protection had a whole different meaning than yours does. And I’ve seen you angry.” She smiled. “More than once.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “But you’ve never threatened me. Well,” she smiled again, “there was that caveman thing the other day.”

  “Sharee.”

  “But you’re not manipulative. In fact, you’re just right out there about what you want from me. You are strong with it, but I’m not afraid you’ll hit me. You’re tender, too.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “That attentive, protective treatment that Dean presented looked a lot like love—like the real thing—especially when he did it for months. I didn’t know the other signs and had no way to judge whether it’s real or not.” She stopped and stared across the room.

  His thumb rubbed across her hand. “What other signs?”

  “Wanting a quick commitment. And even that felt good—after…rejection by others. But then he began to try to keep me away from others. We always did things together, just the two of us. Something always came up when we made plans that included others. Even my family. And, of course, he was jealous. He began checking up on me—where I’d been, whom I talked with. I caught him checking my phone once, and although I had this red flag waving in front of me, I still didn’t get it.”

  “You think there was a reason you didn’t see it? You said you didn’t know the signs, but wasn’t God speaking to you?”

  “Oh, he was speaking—through my parents, through Marci, through his Spirit. I just wasn’t listening.” She gave a half-smile. The heat ran up to her face. “I wanted someone. I was tired of being alone, and I’d dated so many ‘nice Christian boys’ who only wanted one thing.”

  “So, you dated a lot of sleazebags? Why didn’t I know this?”

  “Because I gave up dating. I told God if he had anyone for me, he’d have to drop him right in front of me and have him carrying a sign showing His approval.”

  “I was right in front of you, anyway.” John squeezed her hand. “Go on.”

  “Today, girls—or women—can feel like outcasts if they don’t buy into the sexual culture. I
f they do, they often become just a commodity, something to be used. I had friends in high school, and later in college, who hooked up with guys one day only to be ignored the next day during classes. The guy got what he wanted, but she didn’t. She wanted a relationship.”

  “There are women out there who only want a casual hookup, too.”

  “You’re right. It’s sad. There’s more to life than just hopping from bed to bed.”

  His thumb caressed again. “I know.”

  “One of few.”

  “I think there’s more than a few. It’s hard, though. Hard when some women offer themselves so freely these days. Not realizing that what they have is…”

  Sharee cocked her head. “Is what?”

  “Valuable, something to be prized. Not to get rid of, but to bestow in love.”

  She stared but did not say anything. Wow, Lord. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. How did you bless me with someone like this?

  “And I’m not saying that men have an excuse for their actions. I’m just saying…it’s hard. And that lifestyle is everywhere, on every TV program, the movies, most of the music.” A trace of a smile. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Okay, but I understand what you are saying. Well, Dean acted different from others, like he cared, and didn’t push for sex—not right away. Later, things changed. The verbal abuse started. Everything being my fault. And he would have these sudden mood swings. The eggshells people talk about? I was skating on them.”

  His brow creased. “You didn’t see that as a problem?”

  “You get so far in that you can’t see it. And then he hit me.”

  John’s eyes darkened. “Sharee—”

  “It’s okay, John. You know—”

  “It’s not okay.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that; but you know how God will use everything for good? Not that he causes everything. God doesn’t tempt people to do evil. God didn’t tempt or direct Dean to hit me. But what He did do was use it as a wake-up call. I realized I had to get away, to break it off. Then. Not later.”

  John stood once more and paced. Sharee gave him time, directing her concentration to what was happening inside her. Lord, you’re helping me again, aren’t you? When Dean showed up at the hospital and then today, it threw me. It can’t be like that forever. Thank you for giving me the courage to talk with John.