by A. J. Downey
I followed Pruitt down to our patrol car, and he said, “I’ll drive.”
I didn’t argue. I was tired. Instead, all I said was “Coffee or bust, man.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
When we got down to the car, I took the passenger seat and swung the laptop around to face me.
“What’re you doing?”
“Looking something up.”
“Oh yeah, what?”
“Tell you in a minute, maybe. Just drive.”
“We keeping secrets now?” he demanded, and I looked into my partner’s very serious blue eyes.
“Not my secrets to tell, man.”
“Dude, ‒what happened‒?”
I debated for a minute while the system worked its magic.
Finally I sighed.
“You swear to keep your fucking mouth shut?”
“Hell, yeah! You know you can always count on me for that shit, dude.”
I told him about Lys and the drama from the night before. He gave a low whistle and agreed, “Yeah, that reaction is ‒what you would expect, Golden. You aren’t a small guy.” He sounded judgmental, but I let him have it. I felt like shit about what’d happened but at the same time, he hadn’t seen her face, the panicked, haunted look like… like, Not again!
“Something had to have happened, bro. You weren’t there, and‒. Bingo! I think I just got something.”
“Her name popped?”
“Yup. Just as I suspected, as a victim.”
“Of?”
“Pretty gnarly domestic violence call. Shit, no wonder she left him.”
“There pictures?”
“Yeah,” I said grimly.
She’d been beat to fucking shit. One side of her face was misshapen and unrecognizable. The pictures had been taken before the bruising had even had a chance to set in. Everything was red and swollen, her eye was puffy, her lip fat all down the left side of her face. She had a cut up in her hairline and blood at the corner of her mouth. She stared forward into the camera, grim defeat, her whole world seemingly stripped away. If I had thought her brown eyes had been pain-filled and listless the day she’d moved in? In the pictures, her one good eye was positively dead. Nothing was in there, nobody was home; the pictures were haunting.
I turned the laptop back to my partner, who pulled up to the curb outside our favorite quick-mart. He scanned the photos, his mouth set into a grim line and read off the list of her injuries, out loud.
“Multiple contusions and abrasions, four millimeter scalp laceration secured with steri-strips, no stitches required. Concussion, sprained wrist, fractured left ocular orbit, and a busted left zygomatic. Shit, this guy worked her over, but good. Wait a minute…” he scrolled down and really frowned.
“What?” I asked, looking out the window, rage seeping out from the cracks around the vault I kept it in.
“Suspected sexual assault but victim did not submit to a rape kit. She fully cooperated where the beating was concerned but wouldn’t let anybody examine her further.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered and closed my eyes.
“Looks like he violated the order of protection a couple months back. Her lawyer reported it. Showed up at her place of work as she was closing.”
“That’s enough,” I said. “I already feel like I’ve pried too much.”
“Dude, you think she moved in to your place on purpose?”
“Uh, yeah. Seriously. If you were her, wouldn’t you?” I just wondered why she didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t tell anybody,” Pruitt said.
“Why not? Don’t you think someone you were moving into their house should know something like that?” I demanded. I was a little pissed and that anger was growing the more I thought about it.
“Do you think anyone in their right mind would let her move in, knowing something like that?” Fuck. Touché. I know a couple months ago, I would have said ‘Nope, not today, Satan. Not today.’ Knowing her, though? Granted, not even knowing her that well, I don’t think I would have changed my mind.
After last night, though? Watching her cower from me like that? Yeah, no. I couldn’t turn her out, but we would need some kind of a come-to-Jesus meeting, because shit couldn’t go on like this. If it did, it would only get worse.
I made it through the rest of my shift, but only by the skin of my fucking teeth and by the grace of a partner who fuckin’ got it, and let me sleep on our lunch break while he drove around to cover my ass so I could do it.
I took myself up to my apartment, soaked by the rain that’d started pissing down on me as I’d left work. I paused inside my front door. Hers was standing open, the soft glow from that ridiculous bedside rock lamp of hers glimmering faintly along the floor. I went to my room and changed into something dry before I did anything else. I wasn’t keen on wet clothes. Never had been.
I stopped in her doorway and took her in. She was in that light blue nightshirt thing that looked like it could have been her ex-husband’s. She was sitting on top of my abuela’s dresser, her legs out in front of her, leaning forlornly against the brick wall, her head laying against the edge of the window as she watched the rain on the other side of the glass.
My bottle of good whiskey was perched next to her thigh, a glass at her hip. I had to smile at that. I heaved a heavy, silent sigh and tried to figure out how to get her attention without scaring the shit out of her.
Easier said than done.
10
Alyssa…
He cleared his throat behind me and I jumped. I don’t know why I jumped. I knew he was home. I’d seen him walk past the mouth of the alley, had heard him come in the front door. Still, I jumped, and then I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders droop in defeat.
“Hey,” he said, haltingly, and I opened my eyes again to watch the rain lash the window and trickle down the pane.
“Hey,” I intoned back.
“I see you found my good whiskey.”
I snorted a derisive laugh and said back, “Yeah, well, I figured you owed me a stiff drink.” I picked up the glass at my hip and took a sip. The bite of the alcohol was strong, the flavor very oaky, but pleasant as the warmth trickled across my tongue and down my throat.
“That’s fair enough,” he said and I sighed, lifting my head from the wood window frame and turning it slowly.
He stood in my doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of jeans, the button undone but the fly mercifully up. He was shirtless and comfortable, and looked entirely too delicious. And I really couldn’t believe my brain was even going there right now. Then again, if I drank enough, I might become attractive to him, too. That’s the way he seemed to like them. Drunk and horny, not a lot of class.
I swallowed my bitterness and turned to face back out the window. He sighed and I heard him pad barefoot across the carpet in here. He came into view, leaning a hip against the dresser near my feet.
“You know,” he said softly, “You’re doing this all wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?” I challenged him. “How’s that?”
“The kind of pain you’re trying to drink away? It’s the straight-from-the-bottle kind. No need for a glass.”
He picked up the bottle by the neck and took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He held the bottle out to me. I took it, and the peace offering that it stood for, and took a swig myself. He picked up my glass and gave me a nod.
“There you go.”
“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” I said, a bit ruefully.
“You don’t owe me shit,” he said flatly. “But if you want to tell me, I’m here to listen.”
No, I did. I most definitely did. I’d been so embarrassed, the more I thought about it throughout the day, and it wasn’t fair, me living here like this and him not knowing. This entire time I felt like I was using him, and that wasn’t totally far off the truth.
“I was with Ray for fourteen years,” I said softly. “Married for ten.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Never, not once, did he ever hit me until that night.”
“What happened?” he asked and I could tell that he didn’t believe that last part, that it’d never happened before.
“I guess it started years ago, when I couldn’t conceive,” I said and took another pull from the bottle. I figured I might as well let it all hang out, but damned if I was going to do it without some liquid courage first.
“Ray always wanted a big family. I mean, it’s not like I couldn’t imagine his disappointment when I couldn’t get pregnant. It’s all I’d ever wanted, too.” I closed my eyes and swallowed hard.
“Tough pill to swallow,” Golden said and I could tell he was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t especially awesome at being comforting. It just didn’t seem to really be his thing. I got my shit together and pressed on. No need to make him suffer any longer than he had to with me and my pity-party. I’d really like for it to go back to being for one.
“The sex dropped off pretty quickly after that,” I said with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “I should have known, when it became non-existent and his work hours got longer, that he was getting it somewhere else, but, stupid me.” I sighed in an attempt to let go some of the bitter feeling breeding virulently in the center of my chest, but it didn’t work. I took another swig of his booze to try and drown it instead, but I should have known that wouldn’t work, either.
“That night he was ‘working late’ but my employee, Avery, she was supposed to go out to a really nice dinner, you know? It was all she could talk about all day, that day. It was her and her boyfriend’s fifth anniversary, and he had made reservations at Cipriani’s ‒ that expensive five-star place. I was at home waiting for Ray, and I get these text messages from Avery, saying she was sorry but that Ray was there. She sent me pictures and he was, with another woman.”
I felt just as crazy over it now as I did that night and that was so stupid, wasn’t it? I hated it.
Golden’s hand fell lightly on top of my foot and I jumped. He didn’t take it away, though. He just smoothed it comfortingly a third of the way up my shin, and back down, back and forth a few times before he just left it on the top of my foot, like he was an anchor to the ground.
I stared at the ceiling and took several deep breaths while the feelings overwhelmed me and swept through me. They washed over me like a tidal wave and swept me under. I was caught in a maelstrom, a riptide, and I felt like I was drowning, except for that one, tiny, little lifeline that was his hand on the top of my foot.
“I confronted him when he got home, things got heated and he hit me.” I pressed my lips together and he waited me out, patiently, staring at me with solemn, dark eyes. Not judging, just listening. “He threw me to the ground and we argued some more and then…”
I still couldn’t say it out loud, still hadn’t said it to anyone. Golden pursed his lips and nodded, and I took a leap of faith.
I said it.
“He raped me.”
Golden bowed his head and nodded again. I couldn’t even begin to identify the look on his face. I’d never seen something so determined, yet so angry before.
“Let me guess,” he said, putting his hands flat on the dresser top and hauling himself up and back onto it in a sitting position, feet dangling over the edge. “You thought moving in with a cop would make you feel safer.”
I nodded, and returned my gaze out the window. I was suddenly too ashamed to look at him. His hand returned to the top of my foot and he rubbed it lightly back and forth, a reassuring gesture that I appreciated, but one that stirred up something else. Something I didn’t know if I was ready for or ever would be ready for again.
“I’m not mad,” he said finally, and I looked at him. He raised the glass that I’d been drinking from and downed the last sip or two of whiskey out of it. He held it out and I poured for him.
“I was going to say, I’ll move out if you want.”
“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t want that, but I do want to help you.”
I barked out a bitter laugh, my stomach queasy all of a sudden, and I laid off the whiskey for a minute.
“I don’t think there’s anything out there that could help me.”
“I disagree. I can think of a few things off the top of my head,” he said with a reckless sort of grin that was watered way down from his usual one.
“Like what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, pressing his hands flat to the dresser’s top and sliding back further. He brought up his legs and crossed them Indian-style, pressing his back against the exposed brick on the other side of the window. He leaned his head back and put his hand back on my leg, this time curling it around the back of my calf. He let out a gusty sigh and said, “Tonight, I think I’d rather just stop being a self-absorbed dick, and I want to try my hand at just being here for you.”
I leaned my head back against the wall above where my shoulder was fetched against it and sighed with what I think was relief.
“I’m afraid it’s going to be awfully boring for you,” I murmured and he gave me a half-smile and hitched a bit of a laugh.
“I’m all right with that.”
Hmm, we would see. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, you know?
11
Golden…
Well, it wasn’t boring. I ended up holding her hair back as she puked into her toilet. Girl was not a drinker. I tried to make an off-color joke about being here before, but she spit and said, “I don’t want to hear it, because I made it to the toilet.”
I laughed. She had me there. What I did do was make sure her hair was in no danger of getting hit by any stray spit or vomit while I ran cold water in the sink and soaked a washcloth. I wrung it out, much like her story had wrung out my heart, and folded the wet cloth into thirds. I laid it over the back of her neck for her.
“Oh…” She sounded equal parts grateful and miserable and I couldn’t help but chuckle. I’d been there, I don’t know how many times. I wet another wash cloth and went to her, pressing it against her forehead and holding it for her.
“You are going to be seriously hung the fuck over,” I said, with another little laugh.
“Maybe I should just take the day off of work.”
“I think that’d be a good idea,” I agreed. “I’ll call my asshole brother, have him bring you some sub-q fluids. It’ll help speed your recovery along.
“I don’t know about all that,” she said, dubiously.
“Trust me. Some IV fluids and you’ll feel right as rain.”
“I’m sure I would, but I’m also pretty sure I’ve earned this hell.” Her voice echoed back from the toilet bowl, and I laughed and shook my head.
“Maybe for wasting some of the best whiskey that money can buy, but not for anything else that I can think of.”
“You’re being too kind,” she moaned into the basin and finally, after a moment or two more and a few more spits, she groped for the lever and flushed. I helped to ease her up into a full sitting position and she took over the washcloth on her forehead.
“Hold it right there,” I said gently and stood up. I went to the sink again and plucked her toothbrush from the holder, hit the water and ran it under real quick before loading it with paste. She looked up at me in gratitude, her watering eyes making her look like that pathetic orange, computer-generated, cartoon cat from the kid’s movie. It was actually pretty adorable. Never thought I’d think that about a woman who’d just had her head in a toilet bowl, but here we were.
“Thank you,” she mumbled around her toothbrush as she stuck it in her mouth.
I ran the washcloth from her forehead under some more cold water in the sink while she brushed.
“Just spit in the toilet, don’t try to get up yet,” I told her. She nodded wearily and I handed her down a glass of water. She sipped and spit and while she worked on her oral hygiene, I replaced the cloth on the back of her neck with a fresh cool one.
/> “Thank you,” she said dully, her eyes slipping shut. She looked wrung-out, not just from puking, but likely by all of the emotional talk leading up to it.
I gave her a free pass. She’d been through some shit. Heavy shit. Still, she wore the burden of it on her shoulders like wings. She had some quiet strength, some solid resolve, as far as I could tell, anyway. Not many women I knew could keep their shit together this good, carrying the things she did. Despite the cracks in her veneer, she did it with some grace. I had to give her that.
“I think I’m ready to get up now,” she said after I rinsed her toothbrush and put it back. I took the glass from her, poured the last dregs of water down the drain and set it aside. I dragged my hands over the seat of my pants to make sure they were mostly dry before I tried to help her up.
She took my hands and I hauled her to her feet. Too fast; she braced her hands on my shoulders and closed her eyes, swaying on her feet, her eyes closing as she tried to regain her equilibrium. The hair stood up on the back of my neck and goosebumps marched down my arms and across my chest at her touch, and I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Just dizzy. Trying not to get sick again.”
“Take your time,” I told her, and she began to give a faint nod, but stopped mid-motion, going a touch pale.
“You good?” I asked and she licked her lips, the smell of peppermint wafting over to me as she let out a slow breath between them.
I was suddenly fixated on those lips as she said, her eyes still closed, “I think I’m good.”
“You sure?” I asked, and I was worried it came out hoarse, but her eyes flicked open and she gave no indication she thought anything about me was out of sorts.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Okay, let’s get you into bed.” I helped her inebriated self back to her bedroom and pulled back the blankets on her bed. She got in, but moaned and stuck her foot out, touching it to the floor. I fought down a laugh, but it still edged my voice when I asked, “Room spinning?”
