Beautifully Wounded (The Beaumont Brothers)

by Susan Griscom

  Nothing in that tiny town struck me as dark and private, though. I considered turning in to an ally, pulling over to rest for a short while, maybe thirty-minutes at the most. The town struck me as one of those places one only goes to for vacation. There was a coffee shop on my right, but I didn’t feel comfortable going in there. This was a very small town, and it was too bright in there. Not the type of place I wanted to venture into the way I looked. I’d never be able to hide my eye in there. I noticed a few little shops selling arts and crafts and other memorabilia, but they all appeared to be closed. While stopped at the single red light at the end of what looked like the main drag, I spotted a pub just on the other side of an empty field that actually looked open. At least the front door was open.

  I parked the car and caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I tried to smooth out my long, tangled hair, but without a brush, it was hopeless. As I got out of the car, the sparkle of the tiny speck of a diamond on my left hand caught my eye. I removed the wedding ring and tossed it in the gutter. I’d be damned if I would live the rest of my life as some poor little battered wife, and I sure as hell didn’t intend to ever put that ring on again. Clutching my side, I hobbled through the door of the pub.

  Chapter 5

  Jackson

  “We’re closed.” The words automatically spit out of my mouth as the shape of a body appeared in the doorway that I’d accidentally left ajar.”

  “Oh. Sorry. The door was open. I didn’t realize.” With her hand clutched to the top of a raincoat, she turned to leave.

  Why was she wearing a raincoat? The sun was shining last I looked. “Wait,” I caught myself saying before I considered the reasons. I didn’t have any, other than the fact that she looked like she was in pain. The lighting in the room was dim. I hadn’t bothered to open the blinds at the front windows yet since the pub didn’t open for another couple of hours. Bar stools were still propped upside down on the bar from the floor cleaning the night before. “I guess it’s okay to come in. We’ll be open any minute.” That was a lie, but I didn’t really know what else to say. She looked so helpless I didn’t have the heart to turn her away.

  I swiped my hand through my thick black hair thinking I should have pulled it back into a ponytail. It hung down the back of my neck and onto my shoulders. It was the longest it had ever been, and it irritated me when I did any physical work like the mundane task of balancing out a register—usually my younger brother’s job—or mixing cocktails. Instead of telling her the pub wasn’t open for business yet, I decided to let her come in. There was something not right with her; the way she walked, slowly and carefully, as if she were injured. I pulled a stool down from the bar and placed it on the floor gesturing for her to sit, and walked behind the bar. She clutched her coat closed as she hesitated, but then slowly walked to the stool. Her hands shook as she placed her bag down on the bar, and I decided it might be interesting to play bartender for a while.

  “What can I get you?” I placed a napkin down in front of her.

  “Coffee, please.” She kept her head down, holding on to her dark glasses as if she could hide the bruise that protruded from under them.

  I took a bottle of Jameson's down from the shelf, poured some into a shot-glass, and set it in front of her.

  “I said coffee.” Her voice was soft and trembled as she spoke, and she looked around the place as if making sure no one else was there that she knew.

  “Yeah, I know.” I kept my voice soft, hoping she realized I meant no harm. “But you look like you could use this.” I stood with the bottle still in my hand.

  She glanced back at the open door. “I don’t drink. I mean, at least not at nine in the morning.”

  “Well, I think you should make an exception in this case. Hell, if it makes you feel better, I’ll have one too.” I poured another, picked it up, and waited for her to pick hers up and join me.

  “I don’t think …” The words came out slowly, and she paused and looked at me. “Do I really look that bad?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, okay,” her voice timid, she raised the glass, and I clinked mine against hers.

  “Bottoms up.” We emptied the glasses, and I poured her a cup of coffee. I decided to be bold and go all out. “So, where’d you get the shiner?”

  “I was hoping it would be dark enough in here that it wouldn’t be noticed,” she said, pulling off the glasses and glanced back again at the door.

  “Ouch,” I couldn’t help the cringe at the sight of the black eye. “Let me get some ice for that,” I said, as I strolled to the front door and shut it, turning the lock. Her shoulders relaxed a bit.

  “Thanks, but not necessary, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  I didn’t acknowledge her objection. Instead, I filled a plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to her. “Hold it on there for a good fifteen minutes. It’ll help the swelling go down.”

  As I studied her, waiting for her to answer how she scored the shiner, I decided that even with the black eye she was a damn attractive girl. Her reddish brown hair, lying loose around her face—most likely to help hide her eye—would be as smooth as silk once it met a brush again. She was thin, maybe too thin. She was running from something, or someone. No one, especially a beautiful young woman, comes walking into my bar—well any bar, for that matter—at nine o’clock in the morning with a shiner double the size of a silver dollar, clutching her coat closed while hobbling over to a seat. I wondered just what was under her coat, perhaps a nightgown, sweats—or nothing.

  When she hadn’t answered my question, I went for a different approach.

  “So, how does the other guy look?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah ... ah, the other guy ... not so good.” She shook her head slowly and stared straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts.

  “Lover’s spat?”

  She raised her hand to her face. Her cheeks flushed a little pink. “Um ... no.” She was silent for a few seconds then piped up as if she’d just remembered something. “There was no other guy. I was in a car accident this morning.”

  I figured she was lying, particularly when I caught sight of the large handprint on her wrist protruding from the sleeve of her coat.

  “I don’t mean to sound nosey, but have you seen a doctor yet? You could have some serious injuries, you know. The way you walked over here it looks as if you may have a broken rib—or at least cracked—maybe two.”

  “I’ll be all right.” She sipped the coffee as she held the ice pack up to her eye and sat in silence. She took her coffee black. I appreciated that. I’d never understood how someone could ruin a great cup of coffee with cream and sugar. She looked around the pub. Her gaze settled on the stage.

  “You have live music here?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we do. A couple nights a week, sometimes more. Mostly on Friday and Saturday nights—just some local boys and myself occasionally. It helps bring in the tourists.”

  She smiled and sipped her coffee again, and when she set the cup down, I topped it off.

  “Thanks, um ... Where’s the restroom?”

  I pointed behind her. “Over there, just past the stage.”

  She walked slowly across the room. I’d considered offering her a hand, but decided to hold back. She didn’t seem open to accepting any help, but underneath that tough exterior, I detected a lot of fear. My interest piqued as she stopped briefly to look at my guitar on the stage as she passed by.

  Chapter 6

  Lena

  I hadn’t been expecting the gallantry. I intended to come in, sit alone, and have a cup of coffee; no questions asked. That guy seemed nice and harmless though. Under different circumstances, I would have been attracted to him. He had a kind, handsome face. But then Troy had a kind face too, at one time. The man in this bar seemed to possess something Troy didn’t though. Compassion. It showed in his soft green eyes. And really, how could you not want to trust someone wearing a dark purple T-shirt that said “When wo
rds fail, music speaks.” The T-shirt was fitted to his torso, and revealed part of a tattoo on his well-sculpted upper arm, the only part of which I could make out was a series of music notes trailing down.

  It was probably not a good idea to trust anyone right now, but it had been such a long time since a man was nice to me. Troy hadn’t allowed me to socialize after we’d gotten married. He said if he caught me talking to any of my friends he’d punish me. I knew firsthand what those punishments were like. Two weeks after we eloped he showed me how things would be. How he could punish me. It didn’t take long for that nice, lovable, charm to turn nasty. I tried my best to please him, but I was never good enough. There was never any warning of what might set him off. By the end of our first month of marriage I realized I’d made the biggest mistake of my life, and I feared he might kill me the way that monster had killed my mother.

  Standing before the mirror I tried to smooth down my hair again, but it was no use. “God, I do look pathetic. That bartender must think I’m a case.”

  I rinsed my hands under the warm water. Closing my eyes as the cold tingling in my fingers subsided. As I dried my hands, I caught sight of a little bit of blood under my short fingernails. I always kept them short because of the guitar, even though it had been a while since they even touched any strings. After seeing the beautiful wooden instrument on the stage they suddenly itched to play again. I wished I still had mine. Another thing Troy had gotten rid of. He said I didn’t need any reminders of that wild life, said I was better off now—secure with him—he would give me all I would ever need. I sighed, leaving the bathroom with an overwhelming need to play that guitar.

  Chapter 7

  Jackson

  I watched as she walked out of the bathroom and stopped again at the front of the stage. This time, she stepped up and picked up my most prized possession—my custom Fender Dreadnaught guitar—and my heart leaped in my chest. I started to object, but paused. The way she picked it up, stroking her fingers gently over the golden base, told me it wasn’t the first time she’d held a guitar in her hands. What would it hurt? She sat down on the chair with her back facing me and began strumming a few chords. She played a soft ballad, and I was impressed.

  Brodie appeared by my side, a towel draped over his shoulder. He stood an inch taller than my six-feet-two-inches with the same green eyes, the same strong jaw line, and black hair. But Brodie’s hair had an auburn hue to it, which turned redder in the summer, and he wore it shorter.

  “Heard the tune,” Brodie said in a low whisper. “Thought you’d gone soft on us. Who’s the chick?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Is that your Dreadnought she’s playing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re letting her play it, and you don’t even know who she is? Sheeeeit ... if I even blink at that guitar of yours you have a hissy fit and threaten to kick my ass.”

  “You need to stick to your bass. Now, shut up or I will kick your ass.”

  Brodie chuckled. “You haven’t been able to kick my ass since fourth grade.”

  I tilted my head toward Brodie’s and whispered, “She has a shiner double the size of a silver-dollar, and she keeps clutching at her side. It looks like someone roughed her up pretty badly.”

  “Whoever did that to her might come looking for her, you know. They might want to finish what they started.”

  I frowned. “I’ll handle her. You should go back to whatever it was you were doing. She seems a bit skittish, if you know what I mean. Too many faces may spook her.”

  “My brother, the savior ... do I need to caution you?”

  “Too late, I already gave her ice for her eye. I’m involved now.” I hardly knew her, but somehow my need to help her overwhelmed me. I believed in fate. It had to be fate that brought her into my bar on a morning that I just happened to be there.

  “Is this going to be like the fawn or the bird?”

  It was a well-known fact—sometimes even a joke—around town, that I’d made a habit of saving injured animals. I had to admit, I’d always been a sucker for the wounded. Even as a kid I was always rescuing injured animals. When I was eleven, I rescued a fawn tangled in barbed wire. The fawn had an injured leg. I nursed it back to health and wanted to keep it—begged to keep it—but my dad said I had to let it go once it regained its strength. I cried over that fawn the day my dad took it back into the wild. I hadn’t cried since, not even when the old man walked out on us, and our mother, two years later.

  The hawk rescue, on the other hand, was a little bit different. It simply flew away once its wing had healed. I had been older by then, and knew it would happen, just as it had with some of the other animals I’d saved.

  “Probably more like the fawn,” I admitted. It was beautiful and wounded too.

  “Shit. Well, don’t come crying on my shoulder. I know, I know, there’s nothing I can say or do to change your mind.” Brodie shook his head. “At any rate, she sounds great. Looks great from this angle too. I wonder if she can sing.”

  “Hmmm.” I rubbed my chin. Brodie was right. From this view of the side of her face you couldn’t see the black eye, and she was beautiful. The idea that anyone could assault such a lovely creature sickened me. It appalled me to think about some scum of the earth beating her—major scum of the earth. My brother was also right about the possibility of someone looking for her, especially the way she kept looking at the door.

  When she finished playing the tune she set the guitar down with care—gently resting it in the exact position I had placed it in earlier. She knew how to handle a guitar. That alone told me she was worth the risk. She turned and smiled when she saw me watching. I’m sure I had a silly grin on my face.

  “I’m sorry, I should have asked first. I hope that was okay. Playing always seems to relax me, and when I saw it there I just couldn’t help myself.”

  And I couldn’t help myself. “No, that was lovely,” I said. She was lovely.

  She returned to her seat and carefully sat down. I dumped out her cup and filled it back up with hot coffee. I noticed her coat opened a bit at the top, revealing a bruise at her collarbone. She saw where I was looking, and tugged the coat shut. Then she picked up the cup and sipped. The way she positioned herself on the stool made me think her side was aching more now.

  “I don’t usually let anyone touch my baby, especially when I don’t even know her name. I’m Jackson Beaumont, by the way.” I held out my hand to her, and she placed her small soft one in mine.

  “Le ... um, Lana. Nice to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, ah, Le … um, Lana.”

  She giggled a little. “Just Lana.”

  “Okay, just Lana, then.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve got some talent, Lana.”

  “Thanks. I played all through high school, and actually played in a band later. We had a few gigs in some minor clubs back in Medford until ....” She trailed off, lowered her eyes, and became silent. I figured she wasn’t willing to reveal too much information, not even her real name.

  “You’re welcome to jam with us any night, or are you just passing through?” I poured myself a cup of coffee. I wasn’t accustomed to having a swig of whiskey in the morning, and I decided that I had a busy day ahead and needed a clear mind.

  “No, I haven’t really given it much thought, but yeah, I’m just passing through ... I think.” Then she grabbed at her side and cringed with discomfort.

  “Look, um ... Lana, I can tell you’re in pain, and I can also tell you’re scared. No one here will hurt you. You know … I have a friend, Doc. He could take a look at your injuries if you want.”

  “No. No doctors. I can’t.”

  “It’s okay. Doc’s not really a doctor. We just call him Doc. His real name is Jon Doctrill. We’ve called him Doc since we were kids. He’s a little older than me, and he had a short stint in the Army—medical unit—after he’d gone through pre med. After his term in Iraq he decided to shine on
the medical career. Said he’d seen enough blood for one lifetime. Now he just sort of hangs out around here and plays in the band when he’s not risking his life for the fire department. I’m sure he’d be happy to take a look, make sure nothing’s broken.”

  “No. I can’t ask you to do that, really. I’ll be fine. Besides, I really should be going.”

  “Yeah ... I know,” I said softly and leaned closer to her, my forearm resting on the bar. I didn’t want her to leave. “But it’s no trouble. Really. He’s due in here any minute anyway, and he owes me,” I lied. Jon wasn’t expected to come in, but he did owe me.

  “How about I give him a call, get him here a bit sooner. Let him check out your eye and your side. You can barely move. Then, if you want, you can be on your way. No questions asked. If nothing else, at least he can give you some pain meds. He seems to have a never ending supply.”

  “No, really, I can’t. You’re kind, but no thanks.”

  She started to get up to leave, and I laid my hand on hers, and looked into her eyes. “Please, Lana. Let me help you.”

  She paused and sat back down. “I don’t know. I could use a few pain meds I guess. Are you sure he won’t mind?”

  “I promise, and you won’t even have to pay him.”

  “Are you always in the habit of rescuing young women?”

  “Yeah, I’m a real boy scout. Yesterday I helped poor old Mrs. Feeney across the street, and if you stick around, I’ll show you how to build a fire from a few twigs and a rock.”

  She chuckled and grabbed at her side.