by Jessica Ames
Tammy… he’s talking about Tammy. I helped her get away. I thought I was safe and not on Simon’s radar. Clearly, I was wrong.
“Bigamist and wife-beater… You’re really wracking up the charges against you.” When the hell did he propose? I haven’t seen anything on his social pages.
Probably because he is still married to me.
His smile is thin.
“I know you helped her take my son from me. Where is she?”
I swallow bile at his words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I do and a heavy feeling is starting to settle in my guts—one that is screaming at me that it can’t be a coincidence that Safe Shelter’s HQ was broken into and now Simon is here, after years.
“Don’t you?” His lips curve into a sneer. “Funny, because after she did a midnight flit—much like you did—I hacked into her social media accounts and I found a series of messages between you and her.”
Oh. Fuck.
“You told her I’m violent.”
I swallow hard.
“You were.”
He stares at me. “You always brought out the worst in me, Olivia.”
“Yeah, it’s my fault you can’t control yourself.”
His jaw clenches. “I had to do a lot of explaining after you disappeared.”
“I’m sure you managed to talk your way around it. You always were a good bullshitter.” I edge a step towards the kitchen. “How did you find me?”
“You should have covered your tracks better, my love.”
“You broke into Safe Shelter,” I surmise.
He gives me a thin smile. “You left a trail that was easy to follow—including the name of the shelter you sent her to. I broke in intending to find details of her whereabouts. Imagine my surprise to find a transfer paper for a volunteer to a paid role.” He grins and it’s not a pleasant grin. “I was surprised to see your address, right there. You may as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs right to your door.”
He moves faster than I thought possible and I scrabble to get out of his way. It’s fruitless though because Simon is fast and I have nowhere to go.
His hands are on me, around my throat, the pressure intense.
“You lost me my boy and my woman,” he snarls in my ear as I thrash against his hold. “Always fucking up my life. Now, I’m going to fuck up yours.”
My brain flashes back to memories of other attacks, but this is not a memory; he’s here in my kitchen, pushing me against the wall while he strangles me.
Only this time I’m not a passive observer. This time, I’m fighting back because I have things to live for now. I have Dean, and I’m not giving up on that.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I don’t know how I’m on my feet. Every inch of me hurts. I can barely breathe without pain lancing through my chest, but the pain is welcome because it reminds me I’m still here.
I glance down at the sprawled body on my bedroom floor. I fought and I fought hard but Simon has fifty pounds on me and inches in height. It was a fight I was never going to win, even despite all the training I’ve done with Dean.
He’d hit me, kicked me, throttled me, done everything he could to hurt me but I’d given everything he dished out back with the ferocity of an active volcano.
I don’t think he expected that. I think he thought he would find the meek woman he was married to, but I’ve got claws now and Dean’s defence lessons kept me alive long enough to take a small fold down table Dean and I use when we eat in bed to the back of Simon’s head. He went down like a wet rag and hasn’t moved since.
Using the wall to steady myself, I stumble over the littered debris on the carpet and hold a hand to my side as I move down the stairs. Each step is agony but I grit my teeth and keep moving. Simon is out for the count, but I don’t know how long my blow to his head will keep him down. I’m not staying here to find out.
By the time I hit the bottom step, my vision is rolling. I snag my handbag, which is where I left it when I first came in and fumble with the lock. It takes me several goes to get it open because my hands are smeared with blood—mine and Simon’s—but eventually I manage.
The fresh air hits me, making my stomach momentarily roil as I stagger out. There’s blood in my eyes and I wipe the back of my hand over my temple to clear it. I don’t think I succeed though because my vision is still hazy.
I should get in my car but I can barely see now and I don’t want to risk driving blind, so I go across the street to Dean’s. I push open the side gate and let it swing shut behind me. Then I find the spare key he keeps under the pot near the back door. I leave bloody finger prints all over the back door but I don’t stop to clean them as I push the door open and half fall into Dean’s kitchen. The house is still, quiet. I quickly lock up behind me.
I make it as far as the breakfast bar before my legs try to buckle. I make a desperate swipe for the counter top and just about grab it to steady myself.
Without caring about the mess, I tip my bag on the counter and find my phone. My hands are so bloody I can’t swipe the screen and I have to grab a piece of kitchen roll to wrap around my finger so I can work the touchscreen.
I find Dean’s number and hit dial. Then I wait for it to connect.
It rings and rings and rings.
Fuck.
Come on, pick up.
I’m just about to hang up when I hear Dean’s voice and it is the best sound on the planet.
“Hey, darlin’, sorry, I’m just in the middle of something. Can I call—”
“Dean,” I interrupt him on a gasped breath because I’m not going to stay conscious for much longer. My vision is rolling.
“Liv? What’s wrong?”
“Simon…” I hitch, trying to speak around my swelling jaw. In fact, my entire face feels thick and puffy. “He came… I’m in your house.”
“You safe?” he barks out.
“I think so… Dean, I hit him in the head.” My breath catches. “I-I think I killed him…”
He swears savagely and I hear another voice in the background asking “what’s going on”. I don’t know which brother asks it because my ears feel stuffed full so I can’t hear properly. Dean doesn’t answer him anyway.
“I’m coming for you, darlin’. You just hold on, you hear?”
And I hear movement down the line and the unmistakable sound of a Harley engine roaring to life.
My vision is starting to darken so I leave my phone on the side and stumble over to the sofa. I sag onto it and my last thought is that the bloodstains are never coming out of the upholstery.
An incessant beeping penetrates through my sleep-fog. I feel odd as I’m dragged back to consciousness, like I’m floating on my back in a river that is carrying me downstream with the current. I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel glued together.
I try again, this time managing a slitted opening. Through it I can see a wash of whites and pastels. A sluggish sweep of the room tells me all I need to know: table over the end of the bed, an old television on the wall, sink in the corner and the stink of antiseptic.
Hospital. I’m in the hospital.
The bed I’m lying in is narrow and incredibly uncomfortable. I reach with fumbling fingers for the blankets pooled on my lower half and notice the IV going into the back of my hand. What’s going into that? I twist my neck a little towards the side of the bed, and that’s when I see Dean.
He’s slumped in the chair at the side of the bed, his head tipped to the side, his eyes closed. He’s asleep but it’s not a restful sleep—I can tell that instantly. His brow is drawn down and his mouth is tight.
I don’t want to wake him, because under his eyes are black, as if he hasn’t slept for a week. So I lie still, riding the fuzz of the drugs dulling my senses and keeping my pain at bay. I must doze off after a time because when I open my eyes again the room is lit only by a dim lamp over the bed and Dean is no longer in the chair at the side of the bed. Unlike before, I’m also aware of pain
in my face and across my abdomen. I try to shift, to alleviate the latter, but it doesn’t help. In fact, it makes it worse, so I stop moving. It’s then I hear a hissed voice from beyond the room.
“…you insane? He’s gunning for her.” My eyes shift to the door, which is slightly ajar. Light spills in from the corridor and through the partially open door I can see figures standing just outside the room.
“I’m going to find the sadistic fuck and I’m going to rip his fucking head off. Then he’s not going to be ‘gunning’ for anyone.”
Dean. That’s Dean, and God, does he sound pissed off? The desire to go to him, to offer him comfort, is overwhelming but I’m not in command of my body right now.
“Yeah, sweetie, we all want to kill that bastard, but you need to keep your head.” Holly. What’s Holly doing here?
“So, what? He walks around as if nothing’s happened and she gets punished?”
I hear an exhalation of breath. “I hate to say it, Dean, but Holly’s right: when a hurricane hits you don’t stop to watch it wipe out your town; you just get the hell out of its path. Simon is angry and this level of anger isn’t going to disappear overnight.”
That’s Clara.
I know they’re talking about me, but what they’re saying makes my stomach fill with ice.
“Dean…” I try to say his name, needing him at my side, needing his comfort, needing answers to what they’re arguing about, but my voice is scratchy. I try again. “Dean.”
This time I’m louder. The arguing stops and the door pushes open, flooding the room with light. Then Dean is at my side, his hand slipping into mine as his other goes to my face.
“Darlin’, fuck. It’s good to see you awake. Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
The relief on his face is evident as he ducks down and presses his lips to my forehead.
“Fuck, Liv; I was so scared.” He squeezes my hand.
“I’m okay,” I repeat because he sounds scared, and that’s not something I associate with Dean.
“I’ll find the doctor,” Clara mutters from the doorway. Holly hovers at the end of the bed and I can see the anxiety in her face too.
“Hi,” I say to her and I notice tears in her eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her voice catches as she moves closer to me. She’s lying though; I’ve known Holly a while now and even though I’m drowsy I know she’s not telling the truth, but I don’t have the energy to drag the answers from her.
Instead, I frown at her. “How long have I been out of it?” There’s an exchange of looks between them that I don’t like. “How long?” I repeat.
“About thirteen hours, give or take,” Dean admits.
Thirteen hours? Christ, no wonder they look so on edge.
“Do you remember what happened?” Holly asks, her words hesitant.
Memories flood me of Simon being in the house and the assault that followed. And it takes everything I have not to moan out my despair. He’s hurt me plenty in the past, but that attack had been frenzied, and it had been in the one place I thought was safe: my home.
I draw in breath and try to stop the pain in my chest, which has nothing to do with my injuries. I thought I was safe from Simon, that he had moved on, that I had moved on. I never in a million years thought he would come for me now. With hindsight, I should have.
My gaze goes to the white ceiling tiles overhead. “Yeah, I remember.” I wish I didn’t, but I remember everything.
Dean squeezes my hand, saying softly, “Tell us.”
I don’t want to but his grip tightens, so I start to speak.
“I came home. The back door was busted. Simon was in the house. He found out I helped Tammy and the baby leave; he blames me.” He should blame me; I more or less gave her the push out the door.
Dean’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t interrupt as I continue to explain how he attacked me in my own home, how he chased me through the house while I fought him like a wildcat. I didn’t go down easily; Dean’s lessons had prepared me well. Dean’s fingers flex against mine and this time I give him the reassuring squeeze.
“The last thing I remember was I hit him over the head. He went down hard and didn’t get back up.” I raise my swollen gaze to Dean. “Simon—”
“Don’t you worry about that piece of shit.”
I swallow painfully, all too aware of how bruised my throat is. He had his hands around my neck, I remember that. The memory slams back into my brain like a wrecking ball. Without thought, my hand not in Dean’s death grip gravitates there, pressing lightly and I wince a little at the pain.
“I think I killed him, Dean.”
And this realisation leaves a weird hollow feeling in my chest. I hate Simon for what he put me through, but I also loved him once. Taking someone’s life is not something that can be done lightly and I feel my emotions roil at the thought. “I should have called for help, but I just… I just got out of the house as fast as I could.”
“You didn’t kill him, love. The boys searched the house before the ambulance and the fuzz turned up. There was no sign of that bastard. Dead people don’t get up and walk off.” He takes my face in his hands and forces my gaze to his. “And you did the right thing. You didn’t owe it to him to get help, darlin’. He was the one that attacked you.”
Relief floods me that he’s still alive, followed by panic that he’s still alive. “He’s still out there?”
“He’s not touching you again, you understand?”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yeah, darlin’, I can.”
I don’t find out how he can promise that because the door pushes open and a middle-aged woman steps into the room with Clara on her heels. She’s wearing a cute blouse and an A-line skirt with low heeled shoes. Her dark hair is pulled into a tidy top-knot.
“I hope you two aren’t upsetting my patient,” she chastises both Dean and Holly as she comes to the edge of the bed. “I’m Doctor Ryan. How are you feeling Olivia?”
“Okay.”
“Your pain is manageable?” She pulls out a penlight from the pocket on her blouse. “Look up.”
I try to do as she asks but my lids are still heavy and my face feels big. I wince as she shines the light directly in my left eye, pulling it aside before doing it again. She mirrors this action with the right.
“It’s fine. I feel kind of numb—floaty.”
“That’s good; that’s what we want—look down.” I do as commanded. “Your eyes are quite swollen, as is your face, but this should subside in a few days. Is your vision blurred at all?”
“A little,” I admit.
“Dots? Flashing lights? Dark spots?”
I shake my head. “The only light is the one you’re flashing at me.”
She grins. “You’re joking; that’s a good sign.” She switches the penlight off and slips it back into her blouse pocket. Then takes in both Dean and Holly.
“I need to examine Olivia. Would you both mind stepping outside for five minutes?”
Dean looks like he definitely minds and might fight Dr Ryan to the death if she makes him leave. I brace for an argument, but Clara, seemingly seeing the oncoming storm, grabs his arm.
“Come on. Let me buy you and Holly a coffee.”
He doesn’t seem thrilled with the prospect of leaving me but he doesn’t fight Clara. Instead, he dips his head, presses a kiss to my hair and mutters, “I’ll be just outside the door.”
Not getting coffee, but standing watch, like a guard dog.
I nod.
Dr Ryan waits for Clara to shoo both Dean and Holly out of the room before she continues to talk.
“You really are in the wars, young lady.”
This is not an exaggeration, although I wish it was. The pain relief is doing its job but I am aware of the dull aches and pains throughout my body—aches and pains that are no doubt going to intensify tenfold once the drugs wear off.
“Your head injury is fairly severe. That said, the eye sockets look good and there’s no sign of fracture on the CT scan, although you do most certainly have a concussion. We’ll need to monitor it over the next few days to make sure there’s no lasting effects and that everything returns to normal.” She moves over to the blood pressure monitor at the side of the bed and pushes a button on the machine.
The cuff around my arm starts to inflate, tightening around my bicep. I didn’t even know I was wearing it.
“Should I be worried about the concussion?” I ask, watching the numbers climb on the machine.
“We’ll rescan your head tomorrow and see what it looks like.” It’s not a yes or no answer—typical doctor avoidance.
“What other injuries do I have?”
“You have four cracked ribs, and a lot of bruising, particularly on your back and hips. We had to do laparoscopic—keyhole—surgery for a splenic injury, so please be careful moving around. You have stitches.”
I have stitches? I glance down at the blankets around my waist and carefully pull it back. I’m wearing a hospital gown, which is rucked up to my hips. Leaving the blanket to cover my pelvic region—not that I care if the doctor sees down there—I lift the gown off my stomach and am greeted with several small pieces of gauze across my abdomen. There’s also a smattering of purple bruising on my ribs.
Holy shit.
How did I not feel this? No wonder I feel floaty; I must be chock-full of post-surgery medication.
“Is it serious?” It’s a stupid question because surely any injury that requires surgery is serious.
“We found and repaired the damage to your spleen. We have to keep an eye out for post-operative bleeding or infection but the prognosis looks positive.”
Well, that sounds slightly better than the prognosis for the concussion.
Christ, though; Simon hurt me so much that I needed surgery. Even at the height of our marriage, when the violence was at its peak, he never harmed me that badly.
“Truthfully, Olivia, I’m more concerned about the kidney injury you sustained. We’re still seeing traces of blood in your catheter, which is a concern. We’re giving you fluids to keep your blood pressure stable, but if things aren’t self-repairing as expected, we’ll have to go back into surgery and take a look around. It could be that what we thought was a bruise might be a laceration instead once the swelling lessens.”
