Stolen

by Jalena Dunphy

  “Jess?” Turning quickly, thinking, hoping, it’s Cass, I’m dragged back to reality with disappointment as Bruce and mom’s face come into focus. “Jess?” I see their lips moving, but their voices are barely whispers in my ears. What are they saying? What do they want? Do they know where Cass is? Have they known all along but never told me?

  As much of a surprise as it is to me, it surprises the two of them even more when I lunge myself in their direction, anger propelling me, despair fueling the flame. I know I’m screaming; I can feel the reverberations in my chest. What I’m saying, though, is as unknown to you as it is to me.

  Bruce is holding me tight against him, restraining my arms behind my back. Is he planning to arrest me?

  Mom’s lips are moving, her brows furrowed deeper than I’ve ever seen, tears flooding her eyes; she looks miserable. I should care. I should want to know why, but I don’t. I know I won’t like whatever is making her so sad, and I don’t want to be that sad with her. I just want to go to sleep, to wake up from the alternate reality I’ve somehow slipped into. Life doesn’t work like that, though. You would think I would know that by now, but I guess I’m just not smart enough to have figured it out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Present day . . .

  “Jess, are you awake?” a familiar voice asks. How do I know that voice? “Jess, can you hear me?” Out of curiosity I roll over, my breath sticks to my throat, making me gasp in response. It can’t be! This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real, I chant to myself. I’m here because I had a breakdown and this is just residual lunacy from that breakdown.

  Despite my silent pleas, my eyes won’t close. They’re fixed on the apparition in front of me.

  “Jess, listen to me. I know this is a shock, and I wish so badly that it didn’t have to happen this way, that none of this had to happen this way, but unfortunately it did. How are you feeling?”

  “How am I feeling? What kind of question is that?” My raspy voice shouts. “How am I supposed to answer that? What in the hell is going on here? Why are you here?” I beg through broken sobs.

  “I know this is a lot to process. You have no idea how sad I am to see you go through this. I had hoped that when/if this day ever came things would be different. I want to tell you everything, explain everything, when you’re ready, though. We don’t have to rush into it.”

  I have no words; no words in my head, no words begging to form, no words willing to spill from my dry, chapped lips. I have nothing, nothing but feelings layered on more feelings layered on even more feelings.

  I’m exhausted; the feelings of the entire human race must be dwelling inside me, needing release, banging my insides with iron fists in a failed attempt at escaping. I may never be free of them, of this overwhelming sensation to cry, laugh, scream, and yank my hair out until there isn’t a single strand left on my head.

  “Don’t leave,” I beg as my hand inches its way to the stranger who’s preparing to leave, the stranger with the face I know so well, the face I could draw in my sleep, the face I thought I’d never see again in this life . . . Rogan’s face. I know it can’t be him. It’s not him, but more than anything, I want it so badly to be him.

  He sits back down on the bed. “You sure you want me to stay? I’ll understand if you don’t, I really will,” he presses.

  It’s the eyes. How can someone’s eyes be faked? I see the same things in these eyes as I did every time I was with Rogan. Somehow he always made me feel like the only thing in the room, the only thing his eyes were capable of seeing, and these eyes are doing the same thing, making me feel like the most important thing in his world, maybe even the whole world.

  Nodding, I reach for his hand. It’s soft and warm, familiar in every way. Closing my eyes, I remember the way these hands touched me, the way they held me when I was sad, happy, or for no reason other than a drive to touch me, the hands that made me feel loved, the hands that made love to me, drove me to my limit and held me when I came back.

  Sighing contentedly from my remembrances, I open my eyes to a heated stare from the Rogan sitting in front of me, quickly diverting his attention away from my lips, but not without me noticing.

  How I manage to smile, I can’t explain, but then again Rogan always could get me to smile when I least expected, sometimes even wanted; but this isn’t Rogan. How can this man do the same things that the man I loved could, the man who’s dead, murdered by a lunatic who could have killed me as well?

  “Who are—?” Before I can finish my question, warmth spreads across my bottom lip, sending a quiver through my body. Without thought, I close my eyes. The pad of this Rogan’s thumb slides across my rough lips eliciting a soft moan and stirring a warmth in my belly I haven’t felt in ages.

  How can this be happening? I know where this is headed and I should stop it. I can’t let this imposter kiss me just because he looks like my Rogan. Can I?

  His lips brush softly against mine as if offering a taste of what’s to come if I accept. I don’t open my eyes, too afraid this is yet another delusion, one I most definitely don’t want to escape from. Shifting onto my elbow to reach him, I grasp his neck, sucking in my first willingly deep breath since Rogan died, or didn’t die? Too much to process right now; who knows how long I’ll have in this reality to be able to touch him like this. I have to enjoy it while it lasts. There’s no other option.

  There are no words spoken between us, but our actions speak for themselves. Words never were necessary between Rogan and me. We just knew what the other needed or wanted without question. It made us, us; amazing together. Can we have a together again? Can this be real?

  When his lips meet mine with the same urgency I can no longer contain, all ‘what ifs’ leave my mind in a magnificent puff of smoke. This is my time to feel Rogan once again, and I intend to do just that.

  Taking my face between his two hands, this Rogan kisses me just like my Rogan used to. Can it really be? No, stop thinking! Stop comparing! A whimper falls from my lips, fueling him to continue. Our kiss becomes frantic, primal need the driving force behind the demands we’re putting silently on one another.

  Lying us down gently on the bed, Rogan sidles up to me, one leg draped over the pair of mine, effectively trapping me beneath him, a position that makes me start to believe there really is a heaven and this is it. The heat from his body is making my skin feel like it’s coming far too close to the sun, burning every inch of me the longer I stay.

  I feel a hand begin to stray from my face, moving down my cheek, my neck, grazing over my collarbone, trailing up and down my arm, over my ribs just missing my breast. He pulls my right leg out from under him, wrapping it around his waist. His strong hands squeeze my hips, holding me to him firmly.

  There is a warmth in my belly, and a need seeping from my pores from his touch, my skin flush and sweaty with desire. It’s as if we’ve never been a part, nothing bad has happened to us in the past, and there’s still a possibility of a future together.

  Freeing my lips, he trails kisses down to the top of my chest just above the swell of my breasts, lingering but not crossing that line. Oh please! My brain shouts. Please, cross that line!

  “Oh, Rogan!” a raspy version of my voice cries. “I never thought I’d get this again, never thought your hands would be on me again. I need you, please, I need you!” If my begging is a turnoff, Rogan hides it well.

  Without any further pleas from me his hand is now firmly grasping my breast, making me cry out, every part of me hyperaware of his touch, of his presence, needing it more desperately than I knew. My body is moving in harmony with its own desires, my hands tangling in his hair, my nails dragging down his bare arms, moans and gasps filling the room, begging to be kept secret from the world outside these four walls.

  “Jess, tell me to stop. I know this isn’t what you need right now. We shouldn’t be doing this,” his words are hot against my neck, the strain of speaking them clear in the way his chest is heaving, his desire evi
dent. He’s trying to do the right thing, though, just as he always did. How can I fault him for that? I just need to throw a bucket of ice on my libido, and maybe then I can get onto the same page as my Rogan because honestly, right now, I couldn’t care less about being noble or smart or clearheaded. I want him; badly!

  My chest still heaving, I take a cleansing breath before forcing out the words I have no desire to say, “Stop, Rogan.” Turning my head away from him, I try desperately not to cry. Why is he doing this? I’ve missed him for so long, and when I finally have him, he makes me push him away.

  “Jess. Baby, please look at me.” His words are spoken in barely a whisper.

  Reluctantly, I turn to face him, wiping my eyes on my pillowcase, having been unable to keep my tears from shedding. His eyes are red and glossy, tears evident in the swells below his lashes. “Don’t cry. I’m not mad. Thank you for always being able to be the mature one.” I laugh softly, hoping to quiet his thoughts and worries.

  “I’m so sorry I lost it. I’ve just missed you for so long, and now that you’re awake, I guess my restraint crumbled like a ton of bricks around me. Forgive me?”

  Throwing my arms around his neck, stroking my fingers across the bare skin beneath his hairline, I tell him there’s nothing to forgive, he did nothing wrong. Falling into the crook of his neck, I breathe him in, cataloging this moment in my mind’s scrapbook . . . just in case this isn’t real.

  I used to be so good at living within minutes, my mind and body knowing I deserved nothing more, but minutes have gone by with me wrapped around Rogan’s neck, savoring the unique smell that could only belong to this one man, and I don’t feel bad for it in the least. I know I need to control this feeling of hope beginning to simmer within me; this can’t be real, and even if it is, it won’t last. Nothing good ever does.

  Rogan pulls away from me to open the door after a knock forces me to release my hold on him. I’m left feeling utterly spent and empty without him sitting beside me.

  In an attempt to compose myself, I sit up against the headboard, smoothing out my hair and the gown I’m wearing. Oh, no! I’m in a hospital gown! How could I not have realized this before now? I must look hideous! Why would Rogan want to come within ten feet of me, let alone lie in bed beside me? Too late to care about that now, I guess. Finishing what little prepping I can do from a hospital bed, I nod to Rogan, who’s been waiting patiently for my okay to open the door.

  “Hey, Jess.” Looking at Bruce, I can at least attest to the fact that it’s Bruce speaking, but that’s about it. His voice sounds off, his demeanor stiff, nothing like the Bruce I know.

  He reaches for my hand, then pulls back, then reaches once more. I don’t wait to see if he’ll pull away again. Pressing his palm between both of my hands, I stroke the top of his hand to reassure him, I don’t know what I’m reassuring him of, but it’s clear he needs reassurance nonetheless.

  I look toward Rogan when I hear his throat clear. “I’ll—I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” he says while looking between the back of Bruce’s head and me. I don’t want him to leave and he must sense that. “I’ll be right outside in the hallway, okay?” His eyes implore me to trust him, to trust that he isn’t leaving forever just long enough for Bruce and me to get through whatever we have to get through, and with all the questions bouncing off the walls of my skull I can guarantee we have a lot to get through.

  “Okay,” I relent, and with that it’s just Bruce and me, so familiar it should feel comforting. Instead, I want to shy away from the man I’ve done nothing but run to for three years now. I hate feeling this way toward the one constant I’ve had in my life these past few years.

  “How are you feeling? Any better now that you’ve seen Rogan?”

  So that really is supposed to be Rogan? I don’t buy it, and I hate that this is something Bruce of all people is trying to convince me of. “Rogan is dead! I don’t know how you got that guy to look so much like him, but you did a bang-up job with it; impressive really, but I’m not buying it, so you can quit trying to peddle it, okay?

  “I went to his funeral. You were there, mom was there, he’s dead. I’ve had to come to terms with it, so why are you doing this to me now?”

  To Bruce’s credit, remorse is heavy on his face. I know he doesn’t like being the bearer of bad news, so this can’t be easy on him, but hell, do you think it’s easy on me?

  “I think we need to take this from a new angle. What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

  The last thing I remember clearly? I remember hearing Rogan’s voice when I was getting ready for the party; I remember waking up in the hospital because I had had a mental breakdown because of that, but there’s something more pressing on my mind. Cass!

  “I remember Cass; well, her room anyway. I went in there to see if she was there and instead found it destroyed, boxes and furniture strewn about. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how it was supposed to look. And to top it off, I still couldn’t find her. I miss her so much. I remember that clearly, too, that whenever I mention her name everyone changes the subject as if I won’t notice, as if it’s okay to overlook her. She’s my sister damn it. I deserve to know what’s going on. If she’s okay.”

  Pulling his hand out from between mine, I assume he’s going to pull back. Instead, his large hand wraps around my much smaller one, squeezing gently in a comforting manner, and for a moment I am comforted. This is Bruce, my Bruce, the Bruce who talks to me at two in the morning, the Bruce who’s held me when I’ve cried, has joked with me and made me laugh when no one else could. This is the Bruce who would never hurt me.

  Breathing in a heavy sigh, he speaks. “I was afraid of that. Jess, there’s a lot we need to talk about. Do you want to try and talk about some of this now, or would you rather wait until another time?”

  “Another time? Um, no! I know I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a safe assumption that I’ve waited long enough. Am I mistaken?”

  Before he speaks, another sigh slips past his lips, “No, you’re not mistaken. I’m so sorry to have to do this.” By the utter despair in his voice, the way his shoulders are slouched forward, I know he’s telling the absolute truth. I also know I’m not going to like this one bit.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he drawls out.

  “Bruce, just jump in. You’re killing me here with this waiting game. Just start talking, and if you lose me, I’ll stop you, okay?” Looking into his eyes with earnest, I wait for him to take the bait and dish already.

  Sigh number three. “Yeah, okay.” He rewards me with a smile—a weak smile, but a smile all the same. “I just want you to know before I begin that your mom is out in the hallway, so if you want me to stop at any point to bring her in here, I will. I thought it might be best if it were just you and I for the time being. That cool with you?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I reassure him; anything to get this caboose on the tracks.

  “So, I guess the logical thing would be to start from the beginning.” I don’t want to say ‘duh!’ but trust me, it isn’t easy to refrain.

  “I know that look,” he says with a laugh. “Give me a break, will you?”

  “Sorry,” I say while laughing into my free hand. “I didn’t say anything, though, so you can’t get mad,” I inform him.

  “Uh, uh, you got me on a technicality.”

  Things are starting to feel a little less heavy until I see Bruce rub his hand up and down the legs of his pants, alternating between his pants and picking the lint I’m sure doesn’t exist from the hunter green polo shirt he’s wearing, a nervous tick I’m all too familiar with.

  Shifting a little in the bed, I take a few shallow, silent breaths while Bruce begins again. “Do you remember the day you, Rogan, and Cass dropped Luke off at his house?” Oh no! Clutching the fabric of the hospital gown close to my chest, I nod, too terrified to speak. Why is he bringing up that day?

  Sigh number four passes through his lips. “Okay, yeah, well, anyway,”
he stutters, before composing himself. “That day something bad happened, but not exactly how you remember it.” Avoiding my eyes, his head stays focused on the bed sheet in front of him. “Luke and his mom died that day, his uncle did do it, but that’s not where the story ends.”

  Closing my eyes, I repeat the words I can handle this. I can take whatever he says and handle it. I am strong. I can handle anything he tells me.

  One breath, two breaths, three breaths, go. My eyes open to a worried Bruce. “Keep going,” I demand, unyielding in my need to know the truth finally.

  Sigh number five. “There was another murder that day.” Holding tight to my trembling hands, his words spew out like vomit at my feet. I already know, somewhere I always knew. “Only you and Rogan drove away that day; Cass stayed.”

  I pull my knees tight to my body as quiet sobs shake me at my core. I can’t be sure if these are tears or the dam being opened, the water being the truths I hid behind a large concrete wall, the truths I thought I would never have to release.

  “Cass died, too,” I say aloud just so I can hear the words.

  “Yes. She did.”

  Memories are flooding my psyche in painful bursts; memories I’ve locked up, memories I didn’t want to deal with, memories I now have to face whether I like it or not. “I remember things.”

  Optimistically, Bruce gently coaxes me to share what I remember.

  “I remember taking Luke home. Cass wanted to stay with him until his mom got home. She claimed she was worried about him being alone, but I think she really just wanted to be alone with him.

  “I shouldn’t have let her stay, but she begged and I was trying to be the ‘cool’ older sister. I made her promise me she would be home by nine o’clock no matter if Luke’s mom was home or not. She whined, saying that was only two hours. I told her two hours or nothing.

  “I left her there. I didn’t know what was inside. I never would have left her had I known. Never! Oh, Bruce! Why did I leave her?” I beg, desperate for an answer.