by P. Dangelico
Tribolet pushed the door open with his shoulder. I made a last ditch attempt to stop him by holding onto the frame of the door. This too ended in vain. A second later, we were standing on the street on the side of the building, and cold metal cuffs were snapped onto my wrists and secured behind my back.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?” I finally croaked.
His face froze––except for a nervous twitch under his eye. I didn’t think the situation could get any scarier, but I was wrong. He began dragging me up the cobblestone street.
“Listen up, dirty cockroach. You aren’t going to fuck your way out of this. I’m taking you to the station, and then we are shipping you out of here. Maybe I’ll get a taste of you before I do that, see for myself what that rich piece of shit thought was so special about you.”
I sat down on the road; I wasn’t about to help him lead me to my own demise. He kicked me in the hip, and pulled on my arm so hard I was certain he dislocated my shoulder. I screamed in pain. It did nothing to slow him down though. When he yanked me up by my hair, I stood up as if I was shot out of a cannon. A woman carrying grocery bags stared at us suspiciously. He glowered at her, and she walked past us without a second glance.
All the struggling had us both sweating profusely. With his free hand, he hooked two fingers into his collar and tugged, and in the process exposed a portion of a tattoo on his neck…a tattoo anyone would’ve recognized.
“You’re a hammer skin,” I scoffed. Schweizer hammer skin, to be precise, a branch of the Swiss skinhead movement. “Now I understand.”
He skewered me with a vicious glare. Almost immediately, he realized what he’d done and smoothed the collar of his shirt back into place, hiding the visual evidence of his hate.
“Stop right there.”
Both our heads swiveled in the direction of the voice with the rolled Rs. Behind us stood Gideon and five of his men. All of them with guns pointed at inspector Tribolet. In an extremely tense moment of silence, Tribolet placed his hand on his holstered gun and said, “I am an officer of the law, you piece of shit. Tell your men to lay down their weapons immediately.”
Nobody moved, the tension escalating by the second. Armed with the knowledge I had about the inspector, I knew how volatile the situation was. “Gideon he’s taking me to the station. Meet us there. Please do as he says. And bring the papers the Swiss issued––ask Sebastian.” My words were cut short when Tribolet yanked on my cuffs.
Gideon snapped out of the trance he was in and his remote black gaze met mine. The supplicating look I gave him worked. He slowly lowered his weapon and commanded the other men to do the same.
It didn’t take long for us to reach the police station; the town was the size of a postcard. The minute I was dragged inside, my worried eyes collided with inspector Deubel’s. He stopped midstride and cocked his head, his cheeks stuffed with food. His expression of total confusion turned scalding with anger when he saw Gideon and his men standing ten paces behind us. His attention shifted back to Tribolet, who still had a death grip on my arm. Swallowing down the lump of food, Deubel marched over to us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said in French.
“Booking an illegal,” Tribolet replied casually.
I wanted to punch the smug off his face, though I had a pretty good idea that Sebastian was going to want that honor. Deubel retrieved a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs. I winced in pain. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Are you injured?”
“My shoulder,” I explained, groaning as I gently stretched my arms, prodding and inspecting the shoulder that hurt. The injury wasn’t as bad as I had initially thought––it didn’t feel dislocated.
“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Deubel seethed, speaking through clenched teeth in French to Tribolet. Did he think I didn’t understand French? Apparently, because he continued. “That family built this town. He’s a personal friend of three of the seven ministers!” Spittle flew out of a mouth that reminded me of a sea bass.
Red faced, he straighten his tie, smoothed his shirt, and turned to me. “I’ll get you an icepack and some aspirin. Please have a seat.” Then he guided me to a blue, plastic chair pushed up against the glass window of the empty police chief’s office. He and Tribolet entered the office. The screaming commenced immediately.
Ten minutes later all hell broke loose.
Sebastian came charging into the station like a rampaging bull. You could hear him from a mile away. The bellowing, the stomping around––it put a smile on my face.
“Where is she?” The deep rasp echoed from the front of the station. A beat later he rushed into the room with a squadron of security personnel trailing closely behind him, Gideon to his right, Bear to his left. There wasn’t even a hint of a limp.
Two uniformed police officers immediately jumped in to stop him from coming further into the room. Deubel halted his tirade at Tribolet, and stepped out of the chief’s office, straightening his tie and flexing his neck left and right.
“Mr. Horn,” he said, his hands up in a supplicating gesture. “There’s been a small misunderstanding.”
The pause that followed was brutal. Sebastian stared at him as if he was slicing meat off his bones with a dull pairing knife. “I’d say so.”
Deubel’s rotund physique was blocking me from view. He stepped aside, and all the scrutiny in the room shifted to me. Sebastian’s glare landed on the icepack and his nostrils flared. Gideon came over at once and helped me up.
“Are you all right?” he murmured quietly, wrapping a supportive arm around me.
“My shoulder’s bruised. Otherwise, I’m fine––don’t look so worried,” I whispered back but it was useless, the concern remained stamped on Gideon’s face.
“My colleague tends to be a little overzealous at times. He’s young and passionate about his work,” he pleaded with a thin, crooked smile. “You understand?” A lot of handwringing ensued. If Deubel thought he could salvage Tribolet’s career, he was seriously mistaken…he was lucky to salvage his life.
“Understand?” Sebastian’s voice was eerily calm. His gaze shifted to Tribolet, who was still seated in the office with his back to us. Sebastian’s countenance may have been carved out of ice, but I knew what was churning beneath the surface. “No, I don’t understand.”
“Where’s the chief?” Gideon chimed in.
“Lunch, I’m afraid.”
Shortly afterwards, the chief of police appeared, looking extremely embarrassed, and did his best to calm the situation down. Nothing would have appeased Sebastian, short of putting Tribolet down like a mad dog.
Once we were safely ensconced in the back of the car, Sebastian dialed his cell phone. “Yeah, I have her.” Glancing sideways at me, his eyes did a cursory check for any more injuries. “I want him banished to fucking Siberia if you can swing it…call Fedpol…perfect…yeah, okay.” After ending the call, he breathed out a long sigh, his eyes floating shut while his head fell back onto the headrest. I reached out and covered his hand, lying on his thigh, and his eyes opened again, relief reflected brightly in them.
“I feel like all I ever say to you is how sorry I am.”
He turned in his seat to face me. His hand slowly came up and raked through my messy hair, brushed along my jaw. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” Leaning in, he kissed me gently––one meant to comfort and reassure more than anything else.
“I hate being another burden you have to cope with,” I anxiously admitted. How many times would this man have to come to my rescue? It was starting to border on the ridiculous. He unbuckled my seat belt and pulled me onto his lap, careful not to bump into my sore shoulder.
“None of this is your fault.” And then his gaze turned scalding, directed in the rearview mirror at the man who was driving.
“He’s an officer of the law, Sebastian. One we’re familiar with. When we watched him enter the church––”
“It’s not his
fault either,” I exclaimed in Gideon’s defense.
In a self-deprecating voice, Gideon argued for his guilt. “It is my fault. I promised myself I wouldn’t ever let this happen again.”
“Stop it. It’s nobody’s fault––he’s a hammer skin. He has a thing for immigrants.”
The car was suddenly quiet, the atmosphere crackling with an influx of energy. “How do you know?” Matching alert expression were on both Gideon’s and Sebastian’s faces.
“I saw the tattoo on his neck.”
Sebastian’s eyes slammed into Gideon’s in the rearview mirror again, this time a conspiratorial glint in them. He dialed his phone. “David, yeah…the motherfucker’s a skinhead. Vera saw a tattoo…I want him to suffer. Family, friends––take them all down.”
“Sebastian––” No other explanation was necessary; he could see the disapproval on my face.
“Don’t,” he warned. There was no sign of weakness in his bearing. No indication that he would listen to reason. Vengeance was his and he wouldn’t hesitate to act. I stared at the man I loved and saw something I’d seen only once before in his countenance, malice, wrath that reached into my core and turned it to ice. And for the first time, I questioned what he was really capable of.
Back at the manor, he forced me up the stairs and into the bedroom. Immediately, he ran the water for a bath, pouring in half a bag of the bath salts. If I hadn’t been so drained from the aftermath of the fight and the lingering effects of the adrenaline rush, I could’ve appreciated how well he played the part of a lady’s maid.
Gingerly, I peeled the dirty clothes off my battered body––my silk shirt ripped, a tar stain running down the length of my pants. Now that the rush had worn off, everything ached.
“Motherfucker!” Sebastian shouted. I jerked in surprise, my nerves painfully sensitive. Inadvertently, I’d revealed a welt on my hip the size of a dinner plate. Grimacing, he sat on the edge of the tub and inspected the wound closer. Tracing it with his fingers, he said, “Does it hurt?” His voice was gentle, comforting, a cashmere blanket, hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day…a complete departure from the harbinger of doom I met in the backseat of the car.
God, I loved this man. I still hadn’t reached the bottom of that supply. With everything he had endured, he still thought of my welfare first. “It’s just tender.” I stroked his hair off his face, ribbons of silk gliding through my fingers.
“What would I do without you?”
He glanced up then, his eyes capturing mine. The force of his thoughts, of his adamantine will, was a palpable thing. “You’ll never have to find out.”
Minutes later we were both in the tub, the hot water washing away all the obstacles life kept throwing at us. For the moment I felt born again. As I lay back against him, wrapped in the safe harbor of his arms, both of us were quiet, lost in contemplation. I was rubbing his injured leg, stiff from overexertion, when an insidious thought entered my mind.
“Darling…”
“Hmm.”
“I saw Isabelle in town.” Behind me, he shifted, his muscles tautening with a heightened sense of awareness. “She apologized.”
“Did she?” he drawled darkly.
“Yes…she was genuinely remorseful.” As silent as he was, he may as well have been shouting his judgement at the top of his lungs. I pressed on. “She said Paisley had been arrested.”
“Hmm.”
“For drugs and drunk driving.”
“Yeah.”
The question was on my lips and yet… I couldn’t force it out of my mouth. Always three chess moves ahead, he beat me to it. “What do you want to know, Vera?”
I hated the note of disappointment in his voice, as if I’d let him down in someway. Holding my breath, I said, “Did you have anything to do with it?” Curiosity again outmuscled any instinct I may have had for self-preservation.
“Are you asking if I had her arrested for a crime she didn’t commit?” Out loud, it did sound absurd. He breathed out and said, “No, I didn’t.”
The tension in my chest faded away, only to be replaced by more shame. I loved this man. I respected this man. And what had he ever gotten in return from me but a steaming pile of distrust.
I was ashamed of myself––and yet I didn’t know how to change it. I’d spent too many years looking over my shoulder, expecting people to disappoint me, and up until he walked into my life, they had.
“I knew she was using. I knew her habits. I just brought it to the attention of the right people.”
The silence that followed was not a comfortable one. I turned around to face him, floating above his prone body. On the surface he was a mythical, larger-than-life creature, but on the inside just a man, with all the same needs and wants as any other human being. To be loved, to be understood. It was easy to forget when confronted with all that power and the glossy veneer of his model good looks. He watched me expectantly, his eyes begging for something I didn’t know how to give. He didn’t need to voice the question…the accusation. It hung between us as clear as a neon sign.
Why won’t you trust me?
Leaning closer, I brushed my lips on his. Once. Twice.
“Be patient with me,” I murmured, guilt coloring my tone. I wondered if he could hear the desperate longing in my voice. He grabbed my face and kissed me passionately…the answer was on his lips.
Chapter Ten
In the examination room bare, antiseptic walls glared back at me. The last time I’d sat on this table my world had come undone. All those confused feelings…
There was no longer any confusion. If I could only travel back in time, I’d let myself be happy about it. I’d savor every precious minute.
Stepping into the room, Maria Rossetti pushed her horn-rimmed glasses high up on her head and smiled affectionately. “How have you been?”
“Good. I feel really good––back to normal.” She checked my paperwork and put on a pair of rubber gloves.
“Let’s see. Open your gown.” She listened to my heartbeat, checked my pulse and temperature. “And emotionally?”
“I’m…I’m not sure. Some days I feel like I’m doing better, that I’ve finally put it in its place, and then something will remind me and I’m in hysterics again. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Lay back,” she instructed. “That’s perfectly normal. Have you resumed having sex? I know you stopped by the other day for a Depo shot.”
“No,” I said tentatively. “I’d like to, but Sebastian…” My voice faded away as I struggled to put my feelings into coherent order. In the meantime, she finished her pelvic exam and peeled off the rubber gloves.
“Give him time. He was quite distraught. I wanted to prescribe him something to help him sleep, but he refused to take anything.”
That old friend guilt reared its ugly head.
“Yes. He’s incredibly stubborn…the pills––he wouldn’t take them because he used to have an addiction to oxycodone. He was keeping a promise he’d made to me.”
“Everything looks good. You can get dressed.”
After the physical exam, she instructed me to meet her in her office. Sitting behind her desk, Dr. Rossetti watched me fidget with the hem of my skirt, speculation in her hazel gaze.
“Physically, you’re completely healed. You can try for another baby as soon as you want. ” My gaze snapped up to meet hers. The pain and panic must have been shining openly in my eyes because she didn’t pursue that topic any further. “I have an idea––do you have any plans until your interviews for residency?”
“No,” I answered, shaking my head. It felt like I was staring into an abyss of boredom. For the first time in my life I had no direction, nothing to work towards. I was rudderless and adrift.
Scribbling on a notepad, she said, “I have a dear friend who runs a free clinic. He’s often understaffed, and is in desperate need of volunteers.” Her lips curved up faintly and mischief lurked in the tip-tilted eyes that met mine. “I’m warning you. The rea
son he’s often understaffed is because he…runs them off. He’s brilliant––his instincts as a physician are bar none––but what he lacks severely are people skills. And I mean severely. I have a knack for these things, and I think you can handle it.”
An electric awareness ran through me. This was exactly what I needed, a plan, a job, a way to channel all these muddy feelings into something good and worthwhile.
A purpose.
Dr. Rossetti smiled at the excitement on my face. Walking me to the door, she handed me the paper with the information on it and said, “Don’t let the arrogant bastard intimidate you.”
I turned and smiled. “I have plenty of experience handling arrogant bastards.”
On the way home, Bear in the driver’s seat, the Mercedes sandwiched between a convoy of SUVs, I sat in the back of the car and Googled, Dr. Yannick Kama.
Dr. Kama, it seemed was something of a celebrity. And younger than I had expected––late thirties, I estimated. The only son of a Danish supermodel and a famous Senegalese professional soccer player. He attended Oxford and received his medical degree from the Sorbonne. Arrogance stared back at me from the picture accompanying his bio. Though with his pedigree and accomplishments, who could blame him.
As soon as I left the doctor’s office I checked my phone.
On my way home early. Tough day. I’ll see you soon. Love you, always.
Love you, always…
He ended every text with those three words. Words that turned me inside out every time I read them. Because he meant it with all his heart. He may not have been Lord Byron, but that’s not what I wanted. I wanted honesty and straightforwardness. I wanted white or black––not grey…not empty, disposable words and broken promises.
We pulled around the side of the manor twenty minutes later. François opened the car door for me looking like he had finally gathered the courage to say something. When his lips parted, I cut him off, “I’m sorry. I’m in a rush.” I ran past him like my hair was on fire. In a mad rush to find the man that owned my heart, I stormed into the kitchen and almost crashed right into Olivier.
