Who could have guessed that all this passion lay hidden under a tent-like dress and sensible shoes?
Afraid to break the spell, Travis gently closed the door. Slowly—careful to keep Delaney's back to him—he moved further into the room. The soles of his sneakers made no sound on the linoleum floor, allowing him to close the distance without disturbing her concentration.
Though Travis doubted Delaney would have noticed if the building began crumbling around her. She was in a world all her own. A zone that he recognized from when he was at home plate, a bat in his hands, his mind totally focused on one thing. Hitting the ball into the gap. Or out of the park. Anywhere the defense wasn't.
Sometimes—more often than not—when Travis focused, he could shut out everything around him. The sound of the crowd disappeared. The taunts from the opposing catcher were useless. Even the calls from the umpire were muffled. Nothing existed except him and the pitcher. A one-on-one battle that, more often than not, Travis won. Handily.
Who would have guessed? Watching Delaney, Travis felt a surprising tug. A connection. A new understanding—on some level—of who she was and what made her tick.
The music helped. Travis stopped a few feet away, closing his eyes, processing exactly how the melody made him feel.
Sad was the first word that came to mind. But sadness was only the surface. A little deeper, he encountered wistfulness. Travis wanted to believe hope might lurk somewhere in the piece—he couldn't say.
Suddenly, as Delaney's hands finally stilled, Travis understood. Each note. Each passage. They would stay with him long after tonight. Part her, part something elusive. Hauntingly beautiful.
All leading to a question Travis had to ask.
"Who wrote that?"
Delaney jumped, her only sound a muted gasp. Spinning around, her eyes wide, she blinked several times before her hand went to her face, feeling for something that wasn't there.
"You aren't wearing your glasses."
Travis knew he'd stated the obvious. But he couldn't help himself. He'd never seen Delaney without the dark rims. She turned her face away, fumbling, her hand knocked the glasses onto the floor.
Kneeling, Travis retrieved the frames, holding the lens up to the light to check for any damage.
"What the—?"
Looking closer, Travis couldn't believe what he saw.
"Please." Delaney's hands twisted in her lap, a frown of distress on her diverted face. "I need those."
"No, you don't." Travis folded the glasses, setting them on the piano, well within Delaney's reach. "Those lenses are nothing but clear glass. Why bother?"
Caught out, Delaney's head hung lower, but she didn't speak.
"Talk to me. I promise I won't bite, Del."
"What did you call me?" Delaney asked, her chin lifting just enough so her gaze hit Travis mid-chest.
"Del? Do you prefer Delaney?"
"No. I—" Travis had to lean closer to hear her barely whispered words. "My father used to call me Del. Everybody else calls me Laney."
"You don't like Laney?"
Delaney shrugged. "I've heard worse."
Children could be cruel—especially when they perceived somebody as different. Bullies like Pete Doran used his physical superiority to lash out. But words could be just as hurtful. More so.
Travis felt a surge of protectiveness and a smattering of guilt. He'd never made an effort to befriend Delaney. Never given her a smile. Or spoken a kind word. Didn't that make him responsible? At least on some level?
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"For not seeing you before now."
Slowly, Delaney raised her head, her gaze wide with surprise. Travis looked into her eyes and felt as if somebody punched him in the gut—every ounce of breath rushing from his lungs.
Purple, he thought with wonder. The color of Delaney's irises was like jewels. Precious and rare. Why would she hide them behind a pair of ugly, unnecessary glasses?
"I have to go," Delaney broke the spell, fumbling to return the glasses to their usual place on her nose, masking her amazing eyes. Done, she jumped to her feet.
"Wait."
Travis grabbed her arm, and all hell broke loose. At least, Delaney's version of hell.
"Don't," she shrieked, violently pulling from his grip.
The momentum of the move caused Delaney to stumble, her feet tangling, her legs twisting. Travis reached for her, hoping to stop her fall, but his attempt to help only made things worse.
Delaney—seemingly more afraid of Travis' touch than hitting the floor—jerked her body to the left. As a result, instead of landing on her backside, she crashed hard into a group of music stands.
Helpless to prevent the disaster, Travis watched as Delaney landed in a painful heap, her legs and arms twisted at odd angles. But the worst was the sound of her head hitting the floor where, under the linoleum, lay nothing but unforgiving cement.
The dull thud made Travis wince.
"Stay where you are," Travis cautioned.
Delaney didn't listen, scrambling to sit up. Travis would have held her down, knowing if she was injured moving would be a huge mistake. But he was afraid of her reaction. One touch from him might make a bad situation worse.
"Home." Glasses askew, hair falling around her face, Delaney rose to her feet with the grace of a newborn colt. "I'm late. Can't be late."
For the second time in less than a week, Travis found himself trailing Delaney. Not too close—like the last time. He wasn't worried about a lurking bully. Instead, he was scared to death she was about to fall flat on her face.
"At least let me give you a ride."
"No!"
The panic in Delaney's voice did nothing to allay Travis' fears.
"Great," he sighed as they left the music room. The rain was no longer a threat. The skies had opened up. They were in the middle of a deluge. "My bike won't keep you dry, but at least I'll get you home before you drown."
Delaney didn't answer. She simply lowered her head and ran.
"Maybe she isn't as strange as I thought," Travis grumbled to himself, straddling his bike. "But something weird is going on."
Crazy? Travis dismissed the idea, revving the engine. The strap on his helmet firmly secured under his chin, he headed after Delaney. Trailing her was getting to be a way of life. Before it became a habit, he wanted some answers.
Travis knew a lot of girls and not one of them complained when he touched them. Just the opposite.
Maybe Delaney was a little touched in the head. A lot of geniuses were. He offered a helping hand. Pure and simple. What does she do? She acted as if he was after her virtue.
Travis snorted. Delaney Pope should be so lucky. Stunning purple eyes aside, that girl wasn't his type.
Following Delaney was easy enough—wet, but easy. She didn't take any shortcuts, staying on the main road. Travis kept the bike's headlight trained on her, almost stopping when she tripped, landing on her knees. But she scrambled to her feet, barreling on through the unrelenting rain before he could pull over.
Five minutes into their less than enjoyable adventure, Delaney turned onto Helton Street. The families who lived in this neighborhood weren't poor. Or wealthy. Closer to middle class—barely. Houses of the same design—not too big, not too small—built in neat little rows. Affordable, not fancy.
Delaney opened the gate of the third house on the right, the small, curtained, front window lit from within. In a few steps, she was on the porch.
"You're welcome," Travis yelled above the sound of his bike and the pouring rain.
Without a backward glance, Delaney disappeared through the door.
The girl really needed to learn how to say thank you.
Laughing at himself, Travis wondered if he was the crazy one. Delaney hadn't needed him. She made her way home safe and sound without his help. If she caught pneumonia, that was her problem. If he caught the malady, he had no
body to blame but himself.
Making a loop, Travis paused the bike at the stop sign, trying without much success to wipe the water from his helmet's visor. A fool's errand from start to finish.
Hitting the gas, Travis finally headed home.
Yeah. Crazy sounded about right.
CHAPTER THREE
● ≈ ● ≈ ●
"LAST NIGHT CAN never happen again, Laney," Alma Brill whispered.
She always kept her voice at the same low, barely there level whether her husband was in the house or not. The less attention she drew to herself the better. A lesson she'd learned the hard way.
"Good thing Munch wasn't home when you got here."
Delaney poked at the bowl of oatmeal—thick and lumpy and totally unappetizing—keeping her head down. The only time they could breathe was when Munch wasn't around. Even then, they lived in fear, looking at the clock. Wondering when he'd walk through the door. Lord and master.
More like a jailer. There were no bars on the windows but make no mistake. This house was a prison.
Delaney wished she had the nerve—the backbone—to stand up and protest. She was so tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of suppressing every thought. Sick and tired of hiding her true self. Or rather, who she used to be.
Happy. Full of life. Eager to see what new adventure life had in store.
Did that girl still exist? She didn't know. Not anymore. God, she hoped so. But she'd never find out locked inside the walls she had—from necessity—built around herself.
Seven years. Ever since Henry, call me Munch, Brill had come into their lives. A whirlwind romance and suddenly Alma Pope had a new husband. And Delaney, a stepfather.
In his late thirties, he was a man of average height, but powerful, with thick muscles and a handsome face. Thick, dark hair and dark eyes. At first, Munch seemed like a dream. Until—with the flip of an invisible switch—he turned into their worst nightmare.
Bright beyond her years, Delaney still longed for a father figure, someone to replace the man who disappeared from her life—first through divorce, then, a year later, when he died in a car accident. Delaney's mother wanted to feel wanted by a man.
The Popes—mother and daughter—welcomed Munch with open arms. Munch, once Alma and Delaney were moved into his home, revealed his true self.
A controlling bully. A drinker. An abuser. More than once, Alma would hide from the world until the bruise on her face faded enough to hide with strategically applied makeup.
And—though Delaney didn't understand at the time—Munch Brill turned out to be a man with no compunction about grooming his stepdaughter to one day share his bed.
During the first few years, Munch showed his affection in ways that wouldn't raise any red flags. Hugs mostly. A few quick kisses—always on the mouth. Delaney didn't feel anything was wrong. Why would she? Why would she balk when he insisted she sit on his lap while they watched television after dinner?
She was his favorite little girl.
How Delaney had grown to hate that phrase. She hated the way Munch would tuck her into bed at night, the thin cotton nightgown no protection as his big, rough hands brushed against her vulnerable, budding body.
And the way Munch would lean close, to brush a kiss across her lips. The smell of his breath—rank with stale whiskey—making her stomach turn.
Seven long years. Delaney couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she knew something wasn't right. When she figured out Munch's so-called affections weren't normal. However, ever since, she lived in dread. When would he move beyond the leering looks? When would he grow tired of sickening bedtime touches and wet-lipped pecks?
Delaney knew the day was coming. And soon. Munch seemed fixated on her next birthday. June tenth. Six months from today.
Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.
Not a real, honest to goodness, man/woman kiss. Munch always grinned when he said the words. And winked. As if he carried a secret that he'd soon share only with her.
Munch considered Delaney to be his. And made certain boys stayed away. The baggy dresses and thick glasses materialized long before the emergence of her body's first curve.
"Keep your head down and your smiles to yourself." Munch spent the entire summer after he married her mother indoctrinating Delaney into the way she was expected to act from now on.
"Boys only want one thing. Since you'll never give it to them, no point in getting their hopes up. Right?"
Delaney was too young, too innocent to know what Munch meant. But she learned. Not from the boys in her class. But from the man who—in theory—was supposed to keep her safe.
Delaney shuddered again, this time drawing her mother's attention.
"Aren't you feeling well?" Alma put a cool hand to Delaney's forehead. "Did you catch a cold walking home in the rain?"
"People don't get sick from a little rain, Mom."
"Are you sure?" Alma frowned, checking Delaney's throat for swollen glands."
"Old wives' tale."
"So smart," Alma touched Delaney's cheek, a brief wisp of pride coloring the typically dull gray of her eyes. "However, since I'm an old wife, cut me some slack. Stick out your tongue."
Rather than argue, she did as directed. As her mother peered into her mouth, Delaney sighed.
In truth, Alma Brill was a wife, but she wasn't old. The lines around her mouth, the dark circles under eyes. They weren't from the passage of time, but from living a downtrodden, stress-ridden existence. One of her own making.
Leaving wasn't possible. Alma tried. Taking Delaney, she headed out of town. They didn't get far. And the price she paid—a broken arm and two missing teeth—was nothing compared to what Munch told her he'd do if she ever tried it again. He'd never raised a hand to Delaney. But he could. Yes, he could.
The arm healed. The teeth were replaced. But Alma never forgot. Munch never let her.
Any fight left in her mother was gone. In seven long, unrelenting years, she'd become a shell of her former self. A thin, cowed, timid shell. And Delaney—had followed suit.
Like herself, Delaney could barely remember Alma any other way. She tried to picture her mother's smile but came up blank. God, how sad was that?
Who are you? Delaney wondered as her mother went back to scrubbing the kitchen counter. Who am I?
Losing herself was the most frightening part. Most of the time, Delaney felt invisible. Her classmates looked right through her. Or—if one of them took the time to notice—they ridiculed her. Called her names. Cornered her in an alley intent on…
Delaney would never know how far Pete Doran and his goon squad might have gone if Travis Forsythe hadn't intervened. And she was grateful. Truly.
However—for some unfathomable reason—she also felt a spark of resentment that the great hero-worshiped athlete would deign to come off his pedestal long enough to help poor Delaney Pope.
Some girls—the ones she heard giggling in the halls—would have swooned just at the thought of Travis coming to their rescue. Delaney wasn't one of them.
And then he had to intrude on the only thing that made her happy. The one part of her life she had to look forward to.
Her music. Her sanctuary.
Travis Forsythe might charm the rest of the student body with his smile, but Delaney wanted him to leave her alone. When he'd looked at her—really looked—she felt an odd rush through her blood she couldn't explain. And didn't want to analyze.
For what seemed like forever, Delaney wished for someone to realize she wasn't simply a shadow that flitted unnoticed along the periphery of their life. She dreamed of finding a friend. That person was not—could not be—Travis.
Even if Travis was interested—which was so far beyond the realm of likely, Delaney wondered why she bothered to speculate—Munch would have a fit if a boy started hanging around.
A long-forgotten flicker of rebellion tried to push past Delaney's hopelessness, only to be snuffed out whe
n her mother set a brown paper bag on the table.
"Here's your lunch, Laney. And remember. Munch will be home early today. So, don't dawdle after school."
Delaney took the bag—the same kind she took to school day after day. Year after year. Plain, boring. Inside and out. Just like her.
A boy like Travis Forsythe could shape his own future. The possibilities were limitless.
A girl like Delaney Pope?
Something had to change—and soon—or she wouldn't have a future. Delaney's options were few. If she left, Alma would pay the price. Unfortunately, convincing her mother to run again wouldn't be easy.
She could submit. Just the thought made the vomit rise in the throat. Delaney swallowed. Or…? She'd always stopped before she let herself finish the sentence. Once she did, she knew she couldn't take the thought back.
Delaney hoped, when the time came, she had the nerve to do what she had to do. Escape wasn't possible. Submission, unthinkable.
But death? Maybe.
Rising, she picked up her books and paper bag, telling her mother goodbye.
A welcome calm settled over Delaney. If she was given no other choice? Yes. She could live with death.
CHAPTER FOUR
● ≈ ● ≈ ●
"WHAT'S WITH YOU today?" Eddie asked, shoving Travis along in the lunch line. "I don't know if your head is in the clouds or up your ass."
"Watch the language, Mr. Hayes."
"Sorry, Ms. Perkins," Eddie muttered at their English teacher's reminder of the school's strict no-cursing policy. "The woman is halfway across the cafeteria. How could she hear me?"
"Bat ears," Travis said, keeping his back to Ms. Perkins. "Or she read your lips."
"You think?" Just in case, Eddie put his hand over his mouth as a shield.
"Her son is deaf. Maybe she learned."
"Too bad about her kid. But I call unfair advantage."
Travis hid his grin. Truth was, Ms. Perkins didn't have any children. But he loved yanking Eddie's chain.
"Students outnumber teachers. By a large number. How can you begrudge the woman a little something to help even the playing field?"
For All We Know (One Strike Away Book 3) Page 3
