Together Again: A Second Chance Romance

by Aria Ford

  “We made it!” I said.

  She laughed. “Hurray!”

  I nodded. “Now, we just have to see what happens,” I added, closing the curtains.

  “Yes,” she said. “We just wait.”

  That was what we did. For the next three days, I went out and saw old friends. Kerry came along: one of the things we’d agreed was we wouldn’t go out separately. Not for anything.

  On the third day, I noticed someone in the street opposite the apartment. I caught a glimpse of a guy in the road opposite, looking up at the window. I wouldn’t have considered there was anything odd about it, except that he went to the cafe and stayed, looking up at the window every so often.

  “So,” Kerry said, coming out of the bathroom. She had just dried her hair and I could smell the sweet scent of shampoo and cleanness clinging to the shining strands. “What’s for lunch?”

  I frowned. “I’ll just see what we have, sweetie. Should I make it?”

  “Yes!” she nodded, enthusiastically. “You do that.”

  I smiled.

  We made and ate lunch, and I didn’t mention anything about the guy I had seen. I wasn’t sure yet, and besides, there was no reason to worry. Not until we really were sure.

  I washed up and Kerry caught up with a friend, texting away, while I went through to the bedroom. When I glanced out the window, the guy was still there. I saw him gesture to another guy.

  This was it, I thought, my heart thumping. Something was about to happen.

  I stood at the window, watching them. Then I went through to the kitchen so we could move into the next phase of our plan.

  ***

  “Kerry?” Brett said softly.

  I nodded. I had seen him too. I hadn’t wanted to mention it, just in case I was overreacting. Now, I knew we were right. It was now or never. I stood. My palms were sweating. We were going to move into the most dangerous part of the plan yet. And I would be alone for this part.

  “Okay,” I replied, equally softly.

  “You’re sure, right?” he asked. His brown eyes looked scared.

  “Brett?” I said tiredly. I was tired—all my energy was suddenly drained away. “Just go. Okay? I’m fine.”

  He looked sad. I instantly regretted it. What if I did die? I didn’t want to part on a bad note.

  “Brett,” I said softly. “I love you. Now—please go?”

  He smiled. It shone in the darkness of the room. “I love you too, Kerry. See you later.”

  “Later,” I agreed. Why was my throat so tight? I looked away, hiding my tears. I heard him shut the door, walk downstairs. He was singing, walking loudly. Making as much noise as possible. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  Dammit, Kerry, I told myself. Get focused now. You have to follow the plan.

  I waited at the window until I saw Brett cross the street. I watched the man in the leather coat. He saw Brett too. Brett passed by with exaggerated slowness, looking at his watch. Then he rounded the corner and left. I watched the watcher. He waited.

  He looked up at the apartment. I was standing at the window. He saw me and looked down. A minute later, from a vantage-point behind the curtain, I saw him cross the street. He was coming.

  Right.

  Like lightning, I grabbed my phone and sent Brett a blank text message and waited.

  This was hard. This part was, I reflected, the bit that scared me most. Waiting for a man with a knife. Relying on Brett.

  What would I do, I thought, feeling my hands get wet with sweat and my heart race, if he didn’t make it on time? What would I do if he didn’t come? A thousand scenarios flashed through my mind, none of them pleasant. I wondered if this was my last moment on earth. Someone was after Brett, badly enough to shoot him. Why would they stop at shooting me?

  I don’t want to die.

  I stood and looked out of the window. It was late afternoon, and clouds drifted over the city. I saw a swallow, swooping in the foreground, joined, slowly, by another. I watched them and drank in the scene, appreciating each part of it—the wispy texture of white clouds, the stillness of concrete buildings, the grace of the swooping birds.

  I might not see such things again.

  Standing with my eyes glued on the window, my heart aching with the impossible beauty of a rainy afternoon in Miami, I waited.

  I heard someone coming up the stairs.

  They rang the bell.

  I can’t make myself do this.

  I knew very well who was at the door. There was no lens in the door to check it, but I knew it wasn’t Brett. And there was really nobody else. It had to be the man.

  I took a deep breath. As I touched the door-knob, I felt my heart ache. If I opened the door and he shot me, I’d miss autumn. I’d miss my mom. My birthday. Brett.

  Trust.

  I opened the door, sheltering behind it.

  Someone ran in.

  I screamed.

  It was him. The man from the street. He saw me, ran at me and threw me to the ground.

  He had a knife with him in his right hand, and his left hand was held out over my mouth. I was crying, screaming, but I couldn’t get a sound out.

  I could smell the scent of camphor from cheap hand-lotion and the smells of smoke and badly-cured leather. I could feel the bony fingers pressed against my lips. I could see the flash of a blade.

  I felt my consciousness blur and waver.

  Then I heard someone screaming.

  CHAPTER 20: BRETT

  When I saw Kerry on the ground under the man I thought I would explode. My heart raced and I lost all sense of sanity. I was my primal, growling self.

  It was a self I had never known existed until this moment. I guess we all have it. It comes out when we are cornered, or when someone is hurting those we care about.

  I screamed.

  “No!”

  I had no gun—I never touched one in my life and I never will—but I did have a metal bar. I brought it down over the man’s head with a crash I would never have expected. He fell forward. The knife-hand twisted sideways and I stood on it. He yelled.

  I was screaming incoherently, on my knees now. My one hand grabbed the knife and I held it to his throat.

  He snarled and grappled with me, clawing at my eyes. We had fallen sideways now, and we were on the floor by the doorway, wrestling. I had no idea what the neighbors thought. I didn’t care. I had to fight. I had to beat him. If I didn’t, Kerry would die.

  “You!” I screamed. I felt his hand rake my face. I pushed forward with the knife, but his other arm had grabbed my right wrist and was forcing it sideways. I flailed for balance, knowing that if he pushed me over onto my back, I was dead.

  I heard someone scream. I had let go of the iron bar in the confusion, and my one hand was empty, the other hand holding the knife and trying to stab it forward. For the moment, the other man was unarmed. He was strong, though, with the stringy, sinewy strength of someone who has muscle because they use it daily, not the showy muscle of the gym-trained bodybuilder.

  He was also swearing, grunting. The knife was far away from him and every time I tried to get it closer, he pushed back.

  I felt myself shaking and, to my horror, I started to fall backward. My knee was on the edge of the mat and it dug into it, pressing on a nerve just beside the kneecap. I shifted and fell back.

  Then the scream rang out.

  The man collapsed. I stared.

  I was on my back now, the knife in my hand. The man was lying on the carpet, groaning. Kerry was behind him—a white-faced, round-eyed Kerry who had an iron bar in her hands. She dropped it. Tears ran soundlessly down her face. The man grunted and tried to stand. I knelt on his back. Pressed the knife to the back of his head, just where the neck joined it.

  He shifted and swore. I pressed the knife a little harder. He lay still.

  “Right,” I said. I was breathing heavily, my chest aching with each heaving sigh. I was shaking. I was sweating. “Do we have something like ro
pe?”

  Kerry moved. She went to a drawer. She passed me a pair of tights. I frowned and abruptly I wanted to laugh. I didn’t, though. I tied his hands and got him rolled onto his front.

  I looked at him carefully. He had a vast bruise across his head from where I had hit him the first time, and I had a suspicion the skull was cracked. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye and the long, thin one on the neck. He had another vast bruise down the back of his head, a graze that matted his hair red.

  “What do you think?” I managed to say between pants to Kerry. “Did we mess him up enough?”

  Kerry was silent. She was staring at the guy, at me, her eyes huge. I saw her stumble back and sit on the bed. She looked to me like she was in bad shock—I recognized the signs. I was worried instantly.

  “I’ll take him outside,” I said.

  I managed to lift the guy up, grunting and sweating. He was heavy, for a compactly-built guy. But I got him up, resting in my arms. He was having trouble staying awake. He lulled there and I had a horrible feeling that the concussion would get the better of him. We desperately didn’t want to kill him—just to send a strong message to whoever he worked for.

  “Maybe slap him awake?” I called to Kerry. She looked up at me in blank-eyed horror. I shrugged. As I did so, he groaned. That was a good sign. He was awake.

  “Right,” I said.

  I carried him through the door, which Kerry had wordlessly opened for me. The one good thing about this being a really rough block of apartments was that the neighbors kept to themselves when they heard people fighting. Nobody appeared in the hallway as I passed. The doors were all locked. Whoever was here was not too keen on getting involved.

  The guy groaned as I carried him to the door. I still thought we might have cracked his skull—the swelling looked horrible. I was glad it was starting to get dark, thanks to the time and the rainclouds, so, with my hoodie up round my head, no one was likely to notice it was me. I dumped the guy into my car and drove him through the town toward the roughest part of town. Then I got out.

  “Right,” I said to myself. This was the bit that I was scared of—the five minutes during which I was in a dangerous place, wrestling a semiconscious guy out from my passenger seats.

  I climbed out, opened the door and pulled his feet. He slid out in a smooth motion and landed in a heap by the car. I dragged him back so I would miss him when I reversed out. Then I shut the door and got back into my car.

  I was speeding away when I saw, in my rear-view mirror, how people were coming out to see closer.

  I let out a long sigh and drove off. I had to get back home quickly. Kerry was still there. I had to make sure she was okay.

  I ran up three flights of stairs to the apartment. Knocked at the door.

  “Kerry?”

  I heard her feet scuff the floor, and the door opened. I half-stumbled in, shut the door. Leaned against it and then sat down on the bed. I felt all the energy—born of tension and rage—leave me. I couldn’t move a muscle.

  “Brett?”

  I heard Kerry walk across the floor. She went slowly, then she sat down beside me. I felt the warmth of her leg against mine. I sat up.

  “Kerry,” I whispered. She was cold when I hugged her, and she was shivering. I wrapped her in my arms and held her close. I couldn’t thank her enough. She had been so brave! She had risked everything for me. She had literally just saved my life.

  The thought was enormous. Not only did she have my heart, this beguiling, beautiful woman of flame and shadow. She also had my life. She had saved me and, if we had not loved each other, that would be an inconceivable debt. As the matter stood, it didn’t feel that way. I would give my life for her in a heartbeat. I always would have. I always would. There was no debt between us. Only love.

  “Kerry,” I murmured softly.

  She nestled closer. She was shaking a little less, though I was still worried that she was in shock. If I had any sense, I would have called a doctor by now. I just wasn’t sure if I had the energy to stand up, much less do anything else.

  I leaned in and breathed into that fragrant red hair. It still smelled of shampoo and warmth and the sweet spicy scent of her. I held her close, drawing strength from the comforting sweetness.

  “Kerry,” I said in a low voice. “I can’t thank you enough. You helped me. You saved me. You saved my life.”

  She sighed and wrapped her arms round me. Her voice was barely audible.

  “You saved me too,” she said.

  I sighed and held her close. She rested her head on my chest and I held her in my arms and breathed in the sweet, spicy fragrance of her hair.

  I had no idea how long we sat like that, her body leaning against mine, my arms holding her against my chest. But after a time, I woke from my almost slumber as she shifted in my arms.

  “Oh, Kerry,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  She sighed and looked up at me. Her eyes held mine. We sat like that, my world narrowed to the touch of her hand on my shoulder, the two pools of her eyes.

  “I love you too,” she whispered softly. “I love you too.”

  I closed my eyes and drew her tight against my chest and promised myself that I’d never let myself be parted from her. Not while we both had breath in our bodies. Life was too short for that.

  CHAPTER 21: KERRY

  “You’re sure about this, right?”

  It was Brett’s voice, and it cut through the haze of wonder in my head. I nodded.

  “Brett, how can you even ask something like that? Of course I’m sure.”

  He chuckled. It was a small, nervous laugh. “Sorry,” he said, smiling softly. “I can’t help it—it just seems so impossible, I can’t believe it’s happening.”

  I leaned in closer. “Brett Randell,” I said slowly. “What do I have to do to demonstrate to you how much I love you?”

  He laughed. “Oh, Kerry,” he said. “I believe you. I just…it still doesn’t seem possible to me.”

  I gave him a sidelong glance. “Well, it is. So believe it.”

  He laughed again.

  I walked to the other side of the room and looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a white suit—white blazer, white skirt. The top was a pale silk, just the pink side of white. It brought out the color of my eyes. My hair was up in a loose bun, strands of it tumbling down to like and burn on my shoulders.

  I frowned. Adjusted one of the small pearl clips I’d put in the one side, as a decoration. There. That was better.

  “You look beautiful,” Brett said.

  “Thanks,” I grinned wryly. “You look handsome.”

  He looked surprised, and glad. “You think so?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Brett Randell, you must know that.”

  He blushed red. “Thanks, Kerry.”

  I let my eyes drink in their fill of him. In a suit, his dark hair brushed back, green eyes bright in contrast with it, he was stunning. I stared at his muscle-bound form and felt my heart start to thump.

  “Right,” I said, my voice wavering suddenly with feeling. “We are off?”

  The muscles of his throat swallowed dryly. “I guess,” he said.

  We went down the stairs together. We had settled our troubles in the month after the attack, during which time we’d stayed in the house just outside Miami. We walked out through the front door and climbed into the car.

  While we drove into the town, I let my mind run back over the events of the last week or two. We had heard from Brett’s tormenters, who had, it seemed, agreed to a settlement that was much less than we had expected. With the sale of Brett’s car, and the return of the deposit on both of our apartments, we could just about meet the new price. I took a risk and contributed my savings. We were free.

  With the problem of the threat against us gone, we had the freedom to follow our hearts. And that was what we were going to do now.

  We drove, slow and nervous, but with a growing sense of wonder in my heart, into town.

>   When we walked into the small, official-looking building, I was amazed to be met by my friend, Joanna. The friend I’d met while working for the ballet company, but who I thought I’d lost when my ankle tore. I had texted her on the off-chance that she’d still want to meet up. And now, here she was.

  She wrapped me in a floral-scented embrace. I held her close.

  “Joanna,” I said quietly.

  “Kerry.”

  I could feel my eyes filling with tears—this one extra connection on top of all the emotions that raced through me today was one step too far for me. I bit my lip and struggled not to sob.

  Then she was releasing me and stepping back. “You might know Dominic?” she said.

  I shook my head at the tall, lean-faced man who grinned at me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi! Dominic Worth. Nice to meet you.”

  We shook hands. Brett shook his hand and grinned at him. He looked happy. He also looked scared.

  I went to join him and we went into the office together.

  We stood before a woman in a dark blazer, with a neat haircut and a nice, muted-colored suit. She said some words I scarce heard, and passed us a pen. We signed. She said some more words.