by Evans, J. C.
I press my lips together and hold my breath, praying for the first time in longer than I can remember. I don’t know who or what I’m praying to, only that I need Danny to be okay. I can’t let him go to jail because of me. Knowing he’s locked away in a cell and suffering because he loved me too much to let me flush my life down the toilet alone would make the hell of the past year seem like a walk in the park.
In that moment, as I wait for Danny to emerge and the dog lifts its nose, its muscled body tensing as it scents the breeze drifting through the airy archways leading to the road, I realize how much I still love him.
My mind clears and the barbed wire coiled around my heart falls away and I’m flooded with love.
And regret.
How could I have let him do this? I should have wrapped my arms around him and refused to let go. I should have tackled him and wrenched the bag out of his hands.
Right then, I swear I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe, if only he steps out of the bathroom holding Scott’s bag instead of his own.
A moment later, Danny’s familiar form appears in the open doorway and time slows. His head is tipped down, his face concealed by the brim of his ball cap, so I have no idea what he’s feeling. The bag in his hand doesn’t look like the bag we bought at the office supply store, but it’s hard to tell at this distance. It could be the case with the coke in it, and if it is, I need to get it in my hand before the dog discovers the source of the smell making its large ears stand straight up and the hair on its back bristle.
I propel myself away from the wall, walking as fast as I dare toward Danny, planning to wrench the briefcase from his hand and accuse him of stealing it if that’s the only way to make sure I take the fallout for our failed plan. But before I’m ten feet from the emergency phone, the dog lets out a deep, terrifying bark and leaps forward.
It lunges for Danny, towing his bulky handler behind him.
I freeze, eyes going wide and terror overloading my nervous system. For a moment, I’m afraid I might do something spectacularly ineffective and girly like faint, but then the dog keeps going. It charges past Danny—who is tugging the brim of his hat as he ambles toward the opposite side of the baggage claim, looking every bit the laid back surfer without a care in the world—and aims its powerful body at Scott.
I watch as the dog rips the briefcase from Scott’s hand, shaking it in its powerful jaws until the top flap flies open and a dark green, plastic wrapped kilo of cocaine comes tumbling out.
Thank.
God.
Or whoever is listening to dark prayers like mine.
Biting back a cry of relief, I turn to the right, moving away from the drama unfolding by carousel four. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cop draw his gun and order Scott to the floor, first in Spanish, then in louder, more authoritative English.
“There’s been a mistake,” Scott says, paling as he lifts his hands into the air. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what that is. It’s not mine!”
The second part of his protest is true enough, but Scott has done his share of wrong things.
Of wicked, heartbreaking, life-shattering things.
As he’s forced to the ground and his arms pulled roughly behind his back, I don’t feel the slightest flash of conscience. This is what the spineless worm deserves. This is better than he deserves. He’s getting off easy though he obviously doesn’t know it.
By the time the officer has the cuffs locked around his wrists, Scott is crying out for his friends to help him, begging someone to come explain that there’s been a horrible mistake. But the rest of the Sigma Beta Epsilon frat keep their distance, watching their brother get arrested with expressions ranging from shock to amusement to the boredom peculiar to the very rich and poorly brought up.
Scott is at the bottom of the Greek social structure, a legacy whose father donated too much money to Sterling University’s SBE house for his son to be denied membership. Scott is tolerated by his brothers, allowed to fawn and flatter and to do the jobs the others don’t have time for. He’s the one who organized the cleaning for the house and made sure the kegs were picked up in time for the parties. He’s the one who kept records on the pledges and filled out paperwork for the Greek council. He’s the type of guy who can’t say no, whether it’s signing on for another thankless job or stepping in to take his turn raping a girl pinned to a pool table because his frat president told him to.
He’s pathetic, and if circumstances were different, I might feel sorry for him. He will never be man enough to be anything other than bottom dog, a cowering, self-hating omega begging for scraps from monsters he believes are his betters.
But I remember the way he whimpered as he shoved inside the already wounded place between my legs, grunting like a pig as he found release to the cheers of his brothers. I remember watching him stumble away to collapse on the floor against the wall, tucking himself back into his pants with shaking hands, looking like he was the one who had just lived through something unspeakable. He’d kept his gaze on the floor and his chin tucked to his chest, refusing to look up or meet the eyes of the person he’d violated.
Because I remember, because I will never forget, no matter how much time passes or how much distance I get from that night, I turn my back on Scott and walk away.
And with every step I take toward the parking lot, I feel a little freer.
I lift a hand, holding my straw hat firmly onto my head as I step out of the baggage claim into the breezy afternoon, one less shadow following me into the sun.
CHAPTER NINE
Danny
“If you’ve never eaten while crying,
you don’t know what life tastes like.”
-Goethe
It took an insane amount of self-control to keep from busting into the stall where Scott was taking a dump and beating him bloody.
I wanted to see his pasty face slack with fear.
Then I wanted to listen to him scream as I shoved the kilo of cocaine up his ass.
I knew when I boarded the plane to Costa Rica that seeing the men who hurt Sam wasn’t going to be easy, but I hadn’t counted on the overwhelming instinct to destroy. It was like the need to inhale after too long underwater, painful to resist and so wrong feeling that the primitive part of my mind howled at being denied its right to deliver pain.
Scott deserves to hurt. The hurt should flow from my fists to his body, until he feels, in a visceral way, all the misery and trauma he’s inflicted.
I wanted to extract my vengeance from his flesh so badly I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from climbing over the stall divider and going after him. Instead, I walked calmly into the stall next to his, set the briefcase down on the floor between his stall and mine, and took a piss. When I finished, I flushed, unlocked the door behind me, and let it bang open, hoping the sound would draw Scott’s attention away from the ground as I reached down and grabbed the handle of the wrong bag.
His bag.
I was headed to the exit, but at the last minute reversed direction, walking softly to the back of the long bathroom, where I locked myself in the handicapped stall and stepped up on top of the closed toilet seat. There, I disposed of all Scott’s personal effects—laptop, spiral notepad, pens, three different kinds of gum, ear buds, and a crumpled boarding pass—in the garbage and waited to see what he would do next.
If he realized he had the wrong briefcase, I was guessing he would rush out into the baggage claim area to find the man who had taken it. He wouldn’t imagine that I was still in the bathroom, a fact I’d take advantage of to emerge quietly behind him and disappear in the opposite direction while he wasn’t looking.
Holding my breath, I listened as the bastard finished shitting and rolled his suitcase out of the stall. He stopped to wash his hands, seemingly not in any hurry to leave the bathroom.
I thought, if my luck held, he wouldn’t realize a switch had been made until I was in the parking lot and he was being arr
ested by the Costa Rican police.
Walking out of the bathroom and getting a front-row seat as the drug dog snatched the bag from Scott’s hand and the cop forced him to the ground was an unexpected gift.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this fucking good.
My gait, as I cross the hot pavement, is loose and easy, but inside I’m soaring. I want to lift my fists into the air and let out a shout of triumph. I want to run laps around the parking lot until I purge myself of all the excess energy pumping through my blood. Most of all, I want to snatch Sam up in my arms and swing her in circles until she laughs and begs to be put down. I can’t wait to share this victory with the only person in the world who can understand how much I needed it.
When she joins me at the car, popping the trunk so I can toss the briefcase inside, I can barely keep my hands to myself.
But I know we need to get out of here. Pausing to celebrate too soon would be a mistake.
“Did you see?” she asks, her excitement clear in her voice as we get in and buckle up. “I didn’t even have to call it in, so there won’t be anything to make it look like it was a setup.”
“I saw. It was beautiful.” I glance back over my shoulder at the terminal. “I just wish we could have stayed and heard him scream some more.”
“Me too.” Sam’s breath rushes out, but she doesn’t speak again until she’s paid for our one hour of parking and pulled out onto the road. “But that was way too close. I saw the dog coming and tried to text you, but your phone had fallen out of your pocket. I almost lost it. I thought you were going to jail and it was going to be all my fault.”
“It wouldn’t have been your fault,” I say, not bothered by the close call for some reason. I know there is no great and powerful force watching out for me and mine, but right now it feels like fate or destiny or something bigger than myself is on my side. Our side. “It would have been my fault for wearing shorts without Velcro pockets.”
Sam tosses her hat into the back seat, shaking her hair loose.
This is the first time I’ve seen it down. Despite the new color, she looks more like the old Sam, making it even harder to resist the urge to touch her.
“Seriously, Danny,” she says, her worried gaze divided between the road and me. “We agreed that I would be the only one in the line of fire and then you went and put yourself in danger at the first opportunity. That’s not okay.”
“Come on, Sam, I did what I—”
“You have to promise you won’t do anything like that again,” she says. “I can’t have you hurt or in jail. I wouldn’t survive it. In fact, it’s probably better if you leave right now.”
“Pull over.” I point to the road ahead of us.
“I can’t, we need to—”
“Pull over,” I insist. “Down that gravel road right there. I need to explain something and I can’t do it while you’re driving.”
She hesitates, but finally, with a huff of irritation, she slows and turns right. She keeps driving, rolling on for maybe half a mile before pulling over to the side of the road beneath three Guanacaste trees spreading their mushroom heads out to shade the dusty gravel. She glances in the rearview mirror and does a quick scan of the woods on one side of the road and the sugar cane field on the other before rolling down the windows and cutting the engine.
“What is it?” She’s frowning and her mouth is tight, but I can see something in her eyes, something I was afraid I might never see again.
It’s my soft Sam, with her big heart, who would do anything to protect the people she loves. She’s wounded and limping, a shadow of the person she used to be, but she isn’t gone. She’s still there and I’m not giving up until I make the world safe for her again.
“I promised to keep my hands clean so you wouldn’t fight me about sticking around to help,” I say. “But now it’s time to cut the bullshit.”
Her frown deepens. “It’s not bullshit. I don’t want you in danger.”
“It doesn’t matter which of us is in danger. What’s done to you is done to me.” I lean in, holding her gaze, willing her to feel the misery that’s been my constant companion since I learned what happened to her and then lost her. “Can’t you see that? Your pain is my pain. If you’re behind bars, I’ll never be free. If you’re hurting, I can’t be happy. I’m not built that way.”
Her brow smoothes and regret creeps into her expression. “I was trying to spare you. I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted. You’re a part of me. Where you go, I go.” I cup her cheek in my hand, brushing my thumb over her beautiful mouth.
“But neither of us is going down anymore,” I continue in a rough voice. “We’re on our way back up.”
“You think so?” Her eyes begin to shine. “Do you think that…once it’s over, I might be okay again?”
“I won’t stop until you’re okay,” I promise, leaning closer. “Better than okay. And nothing in the world could make me leave you, so don’t ask me again.”
She swallows. “I haven’t cried since the trial.”
“Cry if you need to. I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to,” she says, her gaze dropping to my lips. “I want to kiss you, but…”
“But what?” I hold my breath.
“I’m afraid,” she whispers. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be good for you again.”
“As long as you’re with me, I’m good,” I say, my throat tight. “Or at least better.”
I shake my head, not wanting to think about what a wreck I’ve been. “I’ve been so messed up, Sam. Nothing feels real without being able to share it with you. You’re a part of me, and I’d rather cry every day with you than try to learn how to laugh without you.”
Her eyes squeeze closed. “I hate that. I hate that I stole your happiness away. I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t steal anything.” I capture her chin, pressing my fingers into the bone until she looks at me. “They stole from both of us and now we’re going to take everything back. Our happiness, our future, everything.”
Doubt flickers in her eyes, but her hands come to rest on my chest, sending heat and hope rushing across my skin. “I can’t make you any promises. I can’t even think about the future until this is over.”
“Then don’t think,” I say, my lips moving closer to hers. “Feel.”
My mouth settles over hers and her lips part with a sigh so sweet and sad it threatens to break my heart.
The world stands still and then, slowly, the clock reverses.
Time rewinds, stripping away the months we’ve spent apart, taking us back to before the trial, before our failed escape, before Sam returned to school for that last terrible semester.
We go back to our perfect Christmas and the fierce, perfect, wild love that lived between us. To those days when forever was practically in our hands and all of our dreams were a whisper away from coming true. Her tongue seeks mine with a hunger that echoes through my bones and her taste floods through my mouth, bringing back memories of every kiss, every touch, every time I made love to this woman who owns me, body and soul. Her arms twine around my neck and her breath comes faster as, one by one, all the barriers between us come crashing down.
I circle her waist with one arm and drive my free hand into her hair, needing to be closer, to disappear into her and never be found.
I never want to stop kissing her.
I never want to be without her again, this person who is as much my family as anyone bound to me by blood.
Hell, she’s more precious to me than half the people who share my DNA. Because I chose to love her, because she won my devotion with every act of heart and bravery, from the day she took a punch for me when we were kids, to the day she left me in a hotel to fly back to face her demons alone, determined to spare me the horror of being in that courtroom with her.
“I love you,” she whispers against my mouth, making my heart cry out with relief so profound it’s
painful. “So much.”
Tears fill my eyes and my arms wrap tighter around her, pulling her over the gearshift and into my lap.
“I wish I’d been there,” I say as she curls into me, her face tucked into the curve of my neck. “I wish I’d been in the courtroom. I could have testified. I could have convinced them you weren’t the person they were making you out to be.”
“I doubt it,” Sam says, pressing a kiss to my throat. “And I’m glad you weren’t there. I didn’t want you to see me like that. If I’d known you were listening, it would have made it so much worse.”
“I know everything. I couldn’t stop reading about it.” I swallow against the lump rising in my throat. “I wish I’d been able to protect you. Or at least been there for you. After.”
“I didn’t let you be there.” She pulls back, looking at me, her expression vulnerable. “But I’m glad you’re here now. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already told you, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“No, there is,” she insists, eyes shining. “I was so numb. To everything. I knew I missed you, but I didn’t realize how much. If I had, I would have known how badly you were missing me, too.”
“Missing is a gentle word for it.” I smooth her curls away from her face. “Lost is a better one.”
“Lost,” she echoes. “Yes.”
“But now I’ve found you and everything is going to be okay,” I say, cupping her cheek in my hand. “I promise.”
Our eyes meet and slowly, bit by bit, I see her resistance fade. I see the moment she begins to hope and it makes me feel like someone set butterflies loose in my chest. It isn’t belief, but it’s a start, and it feels like the world is finally on its way to being right again.
There’s only one thing that could make this moment better.
“Can I take you surfing now?”
She laughs, a real Sam laugh, one of the sounds I’ve missed the most in the past year.
