Elliott Redeemed

by Scarlett Cole

  Then she tapped her index finger to her lip.

  Shit. It was going to be a fun night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Abused patience turns to fury. Kendalee couldn’t remember who had said it. Thomas Fuller maybe. But whoever it was was certainly onto something, because if Elliott did one more thing to act as if this whole thing wasn’t happening, she was going to go off like a Valkyrie, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Except Proverbs 29:11 was stuck in her mind. “Fools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end.”

  He’d helped her into the cab, which she didn’t need because she was a capable woman. He’d attempted to take her hand, which had done nothing but make her notice he was wearing a white shirt that covered his tattoos, which in turn had made her think momentarily how much she loved his ink.

  Asshole.

  And she was not calm.

  Not to mention the whole picture-in-the-paper thing that most of her church-going friends, all of whom were commuters, had probably seen by the subway entrance by now. She was not a deadbeat mom. She was not shirking her responsibilities. She had lived and breathed that fucking hospital. A mom does one thing for herself, knowing her child is with his fucking father. His. Fucking. Father. It wasn’t like she’d left him with Ted Bundy.

  And the pièce de résistance was being kicked her out of her own son’s room, which for reasons she was struggling to comprehend, she’d actually agreed to. It had only been when the barista asked her what she wanted to drink that she realized exactly what she’d done. Hence the Mocha Frappuccino with extra cream.

  In ten minutes, after she’d spewed all of this frustration to Elliott, she was going to go and stay at Rachel’s. The pullout sofa bed in the damp basement was sounding more appealing every second.

  The taxi pulled up at Toronto Harbor. As Elliott paid the driver, Kendalee got out of the cab and walked toward the water’s edge. Mid-September might be fast approaching, but the sun still warmed her face as she looked out over Lake Ontario. A beautiful yacht sat in the harbor, all clean lines and silver trim, and she wondered what it must be like to lead the kind of life that featured yachts and evening sails instead of hospitals and divorces and . . . shit.

  When his arms slid around her waist, she attempted to smack them away.

  “Don’t, Lee,” he said, taking one of her hands each in his and crisscrossing them in front of her body, trapping her in his arms. “I was putting Daniel’s needs above ours. Whatever else is going through your head, at least take a moment to consider that.”

  His words took the edge off her anger. While she’d been busy preparing her own arguments—that Daniel was her son and that Elliott had no right to tell her what to do—he’d been putting Daniel first. He’d been the only one in the room putting him first. But wait. That wasn’t true either. She had just been in shock at the way her relationship with Elliott had been revealed, and that Adrian still loved her, and that her son didn’t want or need her as much as he once did . . . which hurt most of all.

  “I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, breaking free of his hold.

  Elliott placed his finger and thumb on her chin and raised her face to look at his. “Be angry, Lee. You’re entitled to be for the shit you’ve had to deal with over the last year. But don’t be angry at me. I don’t deserve it, and you know it. Rage all you want. I’ll be here for you. I’ll even rage with you, or hold you, whatever you need, but don’t direct it at me. You’re better than that.”

  “You kicked me out of Daniel’s room, and I let you,” she said in response. “You don’t get the opportunity to stand there and say you didn’t do anything.”

  “I did.” Elliott took her hand and led them toward where the yacht was coming to rest alongside the dock. “Because you and Adrian shouldn’t have been having that conversation in front of your son. And because Daniel is tired. Bone tired over the constant lack of privacy and time to himself.”

  “He told you that?” She’d never considered that he might need time alone. In fact, she’d only considered the opposite—that he would get lonely, or scared even, if she left him alone.

  “Yes. He said that. Listen, I got this surprise for you because I wanted to treat you to something wonderful, just for one night.” He stopped right by the yacht, and her heart beat a little faster. “Sail with me. Have dinner with me, away from everyone and everything. You’re angry, I get that. And we need to talk. I guess we could talk right here if you want to, but . . . shit . . . I just want tonight to be special.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, but as much as a small part of her wanted to climb on board, put everything to one side for a couple of hours, and just act like a young woman in love, she couldn’t. “I’m mad, Elliott. Borderline furious. I don’t know how wise that is. Perhaps I should just go to Rachel’s and sleep on it. We could talk in—”

  “No. That’s not us. When things get hard we pull toward each other, never away. Promise me, Lee. It’s the only rule I want.”

  She turned her eyes to the yacht where the crew was readying it for them to board. She couldn’t promise. “I’ll get on board. I’ll even pretend I am thrilled to be there so we don’t make the staff feel awkward, but don’t take any of that as some form of capitulation here.”

  Elliott cupped her cheeks and brushed his lips softly against hers. “Thank you, Lee.” He took her hand and led her on to the boat.

  After the captain had introduced himself and made the basic safety announcements, they’d stepped out onto the upper deck with glasses of champagne. Elliott’s phone buzzed, and he checked it quickly before placing it in his pocket. “There will be an apology and retraction in the paper tomorrow,” he said as he rested his forearms on the railing. His hair was up in a messy bun, and yet it made him look sexier, a feeling she wasn’t ready for.

  “Thank you,” she said, quietly. The city began to shrink as the boat pulled away from the harbor. She sipped her champagne, and breathed deeply. Embarrassment chipped away at the edges of her anger. “How was he when you left him?”

  “Resting. We talked some. It was his eleventh birthday, Kendalee. That’s when it started.”

  The champagne turned sour in her mouth. “Oh my God. It was happening for three years?”

  Elliott nodded. “He told me after you left. He told me some other things, and I told him to talk to his psychologist. You might need to update his police report.”

  “I’m an awful mother.”

  “Lee, you are most certainly not. You are loving, and caring, and you fight for him like—”

  “Stop, Elliott. My son was abused for three fucking years. Whatever happens next in this sorry mess, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.” Elliott reached for her but she stepped out of his grip. “And I am mad. At Adrian. At you. And shit. I’m even mad at Daniel for doing what he did. It took me until today to realize just how incredibly angry I am. It’s bubbling viciously inside me, and I don’t know what to do with it all.”

  Elliott leaned back against the railing. “That doesn’t make you a bad mother. It makes you human. For over a month, your life has been put on hold for Daniel. And every day you do what you can to make the experience better for him. You stay with him, advocate for him, go up against your husband for him.”

  “And yet still you are the one he trusts and confides in.” It was a petty emotion, jealousy, but after all of her hard work and effort, Elliott was the one Daniel was turning to.

  In one swift motion, she was in Elliott’s arms, and this time she didn’t bother to attempt to free herself. Instead she buried her head into the crook of his arm. “Only because I understand him in a way you and Adrian can’t,” he said.

  Kendalee looked up at Elliott, a chill skittering down her arms. “Because we’re his parents?”

  He shook his head. “No. My stepdad abused me for the same length of time, and I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Oh, Elliott.” She wrapped her arms around him.

&
nbsp; “Not sexually, but those scars on my body, the ones you look at and have tried to ask me about . . . those are all his handiwork.”

  She placed a hand on his cheek. “Can you tell me about it?”

  Elliott took a deep breath, and looked out over the water. “Before I do,” he said, his voice measured, “I want you to know that I love you. With every beat of my heart. I need you to know that because I’m scared that what I’m about to tell you will change how you feel about me, and I’ll never get to say it to you.”

  Kendalee’s heart skipped a beat and plummeted into the depths of her chest. “I lo—”

  “Don’t say it. Not until we’re through this conversation. Because I think I’ll survive it if I never hear you say it, but once those words are out, it will kill me to walk away.”

  Unable to think of what to say, she raised to her toes and pressed her lips to his. Her anger began to drain away. The man had just told her he loved her, and it meant the world. She only hoped that what he told her wouldn’t destroy that feeling.

  * * *

  Elliott took Kendalee’s hand and led her to the table. He’d arranged it to be set just like the photograph of the table in the Greek Islands that she’d pinned to one of her travel boards, but he doubted she’d noticed. And in truth, the idea of eating the Mediterranean menu he’d arranged with the chef four days earlier was sitting heavy in his stomach. Back then, the wonderful spinach and feta cheese spanakopita, the stuffed dolmakia, and tomato-based sauce of the manestra had all sounded delicious when he’d approved the menu.

  The staff seated them and brought their wine.

  Kendalee picked nervously at her napkin.

  “Can we just eat?” he asked. “Pretend for a few moments more that everything is normal?”

  “You’re scaring me a little, Elliott. Should I be worried?”

  He shook his head. “No, sweetheart.” He looked at her. Really studied her. The way her bottom eyelashes were so long they almost touched her cheek. The way her hair, down and long how he loved it, curled over her shoulder. He sighed at the idea she might walk out of his life. She’d become the reason he fought his compulsion. It wasn’t his sessions with Anne or the tools he’d learned as a kid. It was the fact if he repeated what her son had done, she would be disappointed. Without her to check and balance his life, he knew he would fall off into darkness.

  Only five weeks earlier, he’d wrapped up a concert in Spain without a single responsibility in the world. And now he had the fledgling makings of a family.

  “You truly are a beautiful woman, Lee,” he said, without really thinking.

  She shook her head gently, as if she didn’t believe him.

  “You are. Now let’s eat,” he said as the food was brought in. “We have all night to talk.”

  Dinner was a relatively quiet affair, with their thoughts and worries getting in the way of their enjoyment and with the staff having left them alone after Elliott had asked for privacy.

  When they’d finished eating, they took their drinks outside. Somehow, talking out in the open under the stars that were gracing the relatively clear sky felt less threatening. He settled them onto a large lounger and pulled a throw over them. It was unnecessary given the mild temperatures, but Elliott felt chilled to the bone.

  Kendalee turned to face him and rested the side of her face on her fist.

  “I was taken into care at age eleven after my father beat me with a frying pan, one he was using at the time to cook bacon. Those marks at the top of my right leg, that was where the fat from the pan splashed all over my skin.” There was a look of horror on Kendalee’s face, her mouth open as she listened to his story. He continued. “The red scarring on my ass was where the pan made contact at least eleven times before I stopped counting. A neighbor who heard my screams called the police.”

  “Oh my God, Elliott. That’s awful.”

  Elliott laughed sadly. “No. It was the best thing ever. Because it was the first time I went to the hospital, and it was there that they found all the other burns. The nine circles were a birthday present courtesy of a cigarette.” He gripped his pinkie finger in his other hand. “And I can’t play the piano because I have no feeling in this finger.” He showed her the white scar at the very tip. “He used to tape a match to the tip of my finger, then light it until it burned my skin away.”

  Momentarily he recalled the pain, heightened by the anticipation of the match burning and the way the heat grew steadily worse until it burned itself out. A lot of his father’s punishments included an element of anticipation. He’d make Elliott wait while he took a draw on his cigarette before pressing the tip to Elliott’s skin, or make him watch those damn matches burn down before they hurt him. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d looked at a flame, desperately wishing he could change its trajectory or extinguish it completely. For years he’d held out hope that Jedi mind tricks were really a thing that he just hadn’t figured out how to do yet.

  “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

  “Well, the first psychologist I saw said I had PTSD. There’s been a shit-ton of research done about brain development and the impact of severe stress during early life. Between my being under constant stress, waiting for the next time my stepfather was going to attack, and the ways all those reactions affected my body, my wiring got all fucked up. I ended up with impulse control issues and stuff I’m still dealing with today.”

  “What kind of things are you still dealing with?” Kendalee asked quietly.

  Elliott looked up at the inky sky. Disappointment filled him as he thought about how he’d planned for the evening to go and the gift he’d bought for her. He’d imagined how excited she would be to see the turquoise bag with the white ribbon, the smile that would have brightened her face as she took in the bracelet she’d pinned to one of her boards.

  “As a child,” he said deliberately, not addressing her question about the present, “I struggled with the lack of control in my life. I struggled with not feeling safe. Ever. I think that’s why I am able to help Daniel, because I actually know what it feels like to really walk a mile in his shoes.”

  Kendalee placed a hand to his cheek. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Elliott, and I feel worse than awful for being mad about the connection you have with Daniel.”

  He turned his cheek and kissed the palm of her hand. “It was more than just that, though, Kendalee.” God, he didn’t want to tell her. For the first time in his life, he regretted not taking treatment more seriously. He regretted his know-it-all decision to keep fire as a part of his life, as his outlet. Alcoholics often made a choice to just have one drink every now and then, and everyone knew how terribly that usually worked out. Why had he ever said yes to that nurse when she’d asked him to speak to a burned child?

  Every time he’d helped Daniel, his own fears had grown.

  He should have stayed away. Kept the half-truths he’d told Daniel to himself. Because, fuck, it truly didn’t get any better. Or maybe it could have if he’d tried harder. If he’d had someone like Kendalee in his corner instead of a whole heap of foster families who didn’t give a shit. Without Ellen’s intervention, he no doubt would be in prison or dead by now—but why would being alive even matter if he was fucking miserable in his own skin?

  He placed his hand on Kendalee’s hip. “I was diagnosed with pyromania.”

  Kendalee jolted like she’d been hit by lightning.

  “I can go into all the clinical reasons why that happened,” he said quickly, wanting to get it out before you she stood up and walked away. “And I can tell you a list of all the things I’ve set fire to, and I could attempt to explain why it felt like the greatest fucking thing in the universe to do that, why it still does but—”

  “Still does?” she asked.

  He swallowed hard at her tone. “My stepfather got four years in prison and was released after twenty-one months. My mom came to the hospital to tell me he’d asked her to choose be
tween me and him. She picked him. I was placed in emergency foster care and was then given to my first foster family. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know those people. I didn’t even know what part of the city I was in. I kept waiting for my foster dad to attack me. I once hid under the bed in the room they gave me for six hours because I heard him telling one of the other kids off.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her how hungry he’d been, how he had been so terrified that he’d shit his pants rather than crawl out of his hiding place. Nor could he tell her how he couldn’t handle the look of sympathy his foster mom had given him when she found him. How she’d spoken kindly as she’d encouraged him to strip down in the bathtub and left him to shower in private while she laundered his clothes. Just as he hadn’t been able to explain to his foster dad why he’d been hiding under the bed in the first place. And when their caring and compassion got too much to bear, when he felt like he was exploding inside his own skin, the voice had whispered at him. Let it burn.

  “I couldn’t deal with everything that was going on, and somehow the only thing that made sense to me was fire. So, I set fire to their fence. And even though everybody yelled and screamed, and the fire service came, and the police asked me questions, I actually felt better. As if a relief valve had been pulled, and I could breathe again.”

  “Are you still . . . do you still . . . Shit. I don’t even know how to ask all the questions I have. Is Daniel a pyromaniac?”

  Elliott shrugged his shoulders. “There is a very thin and hard to discern line between pyromaniac and arsonist. It’s all about the mindset. Arson is more revenge driven. Pyromania is a compulsion, more psychological.”

  Kendalee sat up and pulled away from him, as he’d expected she would. The city line was coming up on the left side of the boat, telling him they’d be docking shortly. “Do you still set fire to things?”

  It was the one question he didn’t want to answer. Should he tell her that he didn’t? From this moment on he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that was true. For his sake. For hers. For Daniel’s. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie, no matter how great the pain was. He felt the boat jolt as it pulled up alongside the dock.