I land a few blows, trying to scratch my attackers when I can, hoping all those police procedurals are at least half-true and the DNA under my fingernails will help nail these bastards to the wall. But as the beating goes on, I stop trying to fight back. Instead I curl in on myself, hoping to protect whatever I can from the assault.
They’re going to beat me to death. I’m going to die without a chance to apologize to Crispin, to Rey. I have fucked things up with the two most important people in my life, and I’m not going to get a chance to say I’m sorry. Especially to Crispin. He said he wanted to be worthy of all of me, but I’m the one who needs to prove that I’m worthy of him. I want to be. If I get out of this alive, I will be. I’m not staying in New York. It won’t be a sacrifice at all. While it was tempting to come back here, I don’t need my old dreams to come true. My new ones are so much better.
A searing pain in my scalp wrenches a cry from my throat as one of my attackers drags me to my knees by my hair.
“Go home, bitch.”
He’s got a hoodie on and I can’t make out his features, but I will remember that voice for as long as I live. Rough and menacing, it sends both panic and relief racing through my veins.
If he’s telling me to go home, they’re not going to kill me. Right?
“Yeah, you fucking cunt. Go back to where you belong. If you set foot in New York again, we’ll hear about it and we won’t be so generous next time.”
My first thought is that my irrational fears haven’t been so irrational after all. My parents have hired some street thugs to assault me, to drive me back across the country. Though I’ve let my ridiculous promise dictate my movements for the past several years, somewhere in the sensible part of my brain, I’ve known it was nonsense. The idea that it’s not breaks a tiny vial of hope somewhere deep inside me that eventually I’d be able to come back. Not have a relationship with them per se, but maybe be acknowledged? At the very least, not shunned? I didn’t realize how much that possibility had meant to me until now when it’s ripped away.
In the midst of my devastation and pain, my attackers are mumbling barely loud enough for me to make out the occasional word. Something about a mugging and a blackmailing techie rat bastard. They weren’t sent by my parents. That knowledge rekindles the scrap of fight I have left. I open my mouth to threaten them—because I’m just that stupid and stubborn—when there’s a burst of pain at the back of my head and I lose control, tumbling into blackness.
Chapter Twenty
‡
My head hurts. Like a bitch. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. Someone’s holding my hand, and I try to squeeze to let them know I’m in here, but I can’t. Nothing is working the way it should, and I’m so tired. Maybe I’ll go back to sleep and try again later.
*
I can’t tell how much time has passed, but I’m awake. This time I can move, but I can’t quite open my eyes. They feel as though they’ve been glued shut. I tighten my hand around someone else’s. I don’t know whose.
“India?”
It’s a familiar voice, a comforting voice.
“India, can you hear me?”
I tighten my hand again, but then I’m lost.
*
The next time I wake, I feel more like I’m inhabiting my own body. I move my fingers without so much effort, and there’s the possibility I could open my eyes.
“India?”
I open my eyes and everything is fuzzy, but I know one thing.
“Daddy.”
My dad is here. He’ll take care of everything. People listen to him. He squeezes my hand. “Yeah, Rani, I’m here. You’re going to be okay. Don’t worry.”
His assurances let me fall back asleep—or to wherever it is I’m going. At least there, everything doesn’t hurt so much.
*
I’ve surfaced again. If I could maintain consciousness for more than a minute at a time that would be great.
“Rani?”
It’s the same voice I’m hearing, the same hand I’m squeezing, but instead of being a comfort, there are vines of anxiety creeping around me. When I blink my eyes open, I understand why. My dad is here, and my brain is functioning enough for that to freak me out. I jerk away and blink wildly. “What are you doing here?”
He looks hurt but unsurprised. “Do you remember your friend Mia from Dalton? Her mom’s a doctor here, and she was on duty in the ER when they brought you in. You didn’t have any ID, but she recognized you and called me.”
I turn over as well as I can so I don’t have to look at him. “I don’t want you here.”
“India—”
“Get out,” I bite off, trying to curl up in a ball.
“I will. Is there anyone you want me to call for you?”
“Get me a nurse.”
I don’t want him knowing who I want when I’m hurt. He doesn’t deserve to know even that much about me. I hate that he’s seen me, that he knows how long my hair is, that I called him daddy. I want him out.
“Okay.”
I shut my eyes and hold my breath until he leaves. The nurse arrives, and I give her Crispin’s name and number, telling her he won’t pick up. She needs to leave a message, and when he calls back, she should give him any information he asks for. She asks me a few questions, but I’m already sinking.
*
When I regain consciousness, I feel like it’s from sleep and not from the abyss I’ve been sinking into. I don’t hurt quite so much, but that’s not saying a whole lot. Someone is holding my hand again, and it’s immediately familiar.
“Rey.” I open my eyes to see his handsome face. His beautiful, loving, accepting face. I’ve missed him so much.
“Hi, little one.” He strokes my hair, and his fingers feel so right drifting through my curls.
“What’re you doing here?” I could’ve sworn I asked the nurse to call Crispin, but it wouldn’t be out of the question for my brain to have gone on autopilot and autopilot’s still programmed to Rey.
“Cris called me.”
My throat tightens with gratitude, for both of them. “I’m glad you’re here. And I’m sorry. I’m so stupid. I know you were trying to help. And you did, but I…”
“I knew what was going to happen. I did it anyway. It was my choice. I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
Rey and his goddamn god complex. A small part of me wants to tell him to fuck off, arrogant son of a bitch. But we all have our flaws, and his have done me far more good than harm. Doesn’t mean I’m just going to give in. “Don’t pull anything like that on me again.”
“Scout’s honor. But only if you stop being such a stubborn little thing.” He meets my scowl with a teasing, indulgent smile, and I give up. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death warmed over. How do I look?”
“Not quite as radiant as usual and hospital blue isn’t your color, but you’ll do.”
I crack a smile and close my eyes under his attentions.
“India, are you still there?”
“Mmm.”
“Okay. Cris is on his way.”
“He’s coming?”
“Of course he’s coming. But he knew I could be here sooner than he could, that’s why he called. When are you going to get it through your pretty little head that the man is crazy about you?”
“But his dad…” And the fact that I was a horrifyingly selfish bitch after everything he’d given me.
“Yeah, I know. But he’s on his way, probably somewhere over the Midwest.”
I feel bad. Crispin should be with his family, especially when the alternative is flying halfway across the world to be with someone who’s never been able to reciprocate the way he deserves. But the idea of him being here is too welcome to be too upset about it. He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions, and he’s decided to come be with me. I’m filled with the pleasant burn of his kept promise, and the warmth has a narcotic effect.
“I’m tired, Rey.”
/> “I know, little one. It’s okay to go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It’s easy to let that be a comfort again, and I fall asleep.
*
I hear people talking. Two people, more accurately. And to be precise, my two favorite people in the whole world.
“He’s still sitting in the waiting room.”
“Did you hear him yelling at the nurse?”
“Yeah. Now I know where she gets it from.”
“Not until you’ve met her mother you don’t. I hope you never will. India always claimed she liked me, but I still had to down a bottle of Maalox after spending more than a couple minutes with the woman. Toxic.”
“So India’s nothing like her mother?”
“Only the yelling part,” Rey grants. “And the swearing. And the hair.”
“I thought India’s mom was blonde?”
“Did she never tell you?”
“She doesn’t talk about them much.”
“Would you? No, Samantha’s natural color is jet-black, like India’s. She’s dyed it some shade of Marilyn Monroe for so long she probably forgets. Anyway, Ivy told India she was adopted, and poor little India believed her because Ivy pointed out she was the only one with black hair. Samantha was too vain to tell her otherwise. Preston had to wait days before he could get her alone to tell her and made her swear to secrecy.”
“Kind of makes you wish she were adopted.”
“But then she wouldn’t be India.”
“I’d rather have her be someone else than have her suffer.”
“She’s not suffering anymore, Cris.”
“That’s a funny thing to say about a girl who’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed.”
“Not really. She’ll walk out of here in a couple of days.”
“That’s awfully optimistic of you.”
“I don’t think so. Have you met India? The girl’s got more stubborn in her little finger than a herd of wild donkeys.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“And she can take a beating like no one’s business.”
“Also true.”
“So what I’m talking about is you. She’s found someone who can love her in a way she finds acceptable, and she loves you back. Maybe more than she realizes and more than she’ll ever be able to show, but trust me when I tell you she loves you like crazy.”
“I know she does.”
“So she’s not suffering anymore.”
There’s a pause before Crispin says, “She’s still going to be hurting.”
“It’s a good thing we’re here to gang up on her then, isn’t it?”
“Think we can take her?”
“Honestly?”
Then they laugh. It’s the nicest sound I’ve ever heard. I must have done something very right in my life to get to hear such a sound, to have deserved these men. I want to see them and touch them and tell them I love them. I dig myself out of my pain and exhaustion, and there they are. One pair of brown eyes and one pair of grey-blue, both gleaming back at me from delighted faces.
“I heard that. You boys are going down.” My woozy mumbling is not particularly threatening, but they’re kind enough to at least pretend to take me seriously.
“Bring it on, little one.”
“In a few days,” Crispin admonishes.
“But right now it’d be a fair fight,” I taunt.
Crispin sits on the side of my bed and cups my face.
“Nothing’s a fair fight when you’re involved, India.”
Rey stands up and heads to the door. “I’ll give you two a little while.”
“Thanks, Rey.”
When he’s gone, Crispin drops his hand to rest over mine and kisses my cheek before pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Crispin, I—”
He shushes me with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter. I promised you we’d work it out, and we will. We can talk about it later.”
His dogged and sincere insistence makes me go all warm and gooey inside, a feeling I’m getting increasingly comfortable with. He’d do it, too, no matter what I said. If I told him I was going to the moon, I think he’d train to be an astronaut. And that’s what gives me the ability to give him something back—because it amounts to spare change in the face of the wealth he’s heaped on me.
“No, I want to talk about it now. I owe you an apology. I’m not going to take the job. I’m going to stay in San Diego.”
“Okay.” His easy acceptance makes me feel like he’s not taking me seriously, just mollifying me like I’m a child or a feverish invalid making an outlandish promise. I want to grab hold of him and shake him until he believes me, but he interrupts. “You should know we’re engaged again. Rey had to tell them that so I could see you.”
Right. Rey’s still listed as my emergency contact on all of my information. Crispin has as much right to come see me as the next guy off the street and the thought trips my panic button, but I try to keep it under wraps with a joke.
“If we’re going to make a habit of this, maybe we should make it official.”
“That’s not funny.”
I hesitate. “Maybe it’s not supposed to be funny.”
“Maybe?”
“No. It’s not funny. I don’t want people telling us we can’t see each other because they don’t understand. What if you were sick and I couldn’t be with you? What if you get hurt again?” My chest gets tight as the anxiety rises.
“Hush, India, it’s okay. No one’s going to keep me from you.”
“But they could. Because I don’t have some stupid ring on my finger or some ridiculous piece of paper.”
“Hey, it’s all right. Don’t get upset.”
But I can’t stop. I’m getting hysterical.
“Why shouldn’t I? They didn’t even know to call you. What if I hadn’t woken up? You’d never know.”
“If you think Rey and I would ever stop looking for you, you’re wrong.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.”
“That’s not a good reason to get married, India.” His mild tone is as good as a challenge, and it makes me realize that, though this started as a joke, it’s actually something I want. Desperately.
“Give me a better one.”
He assesses me, his head cocking to the side. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Now is not the best time for you to be making major decisions. You’ve been through something really traumatic, and you’re on god-knows-what kinds of drugs.”
“I’m not on any drugs.”
That catches him up short, and he looks at me sharply. “What do you mean you’re not on any drugs?”
“What I said.”
“They’re not giving you any pain meds?”
“No, I told them not to. You know I don’t like that stuff. Now stop shouting, you’re giving me a headache.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the pistol-whipping. Why don’t you want anything for your pain?”
“Because it makes me feel out of it.”
“More than hurting so much you can barely see straight?”
“Yes.” Pain is something I can deal with, something I understand how to manage. I’d be a brilliant CIA agent—torture, schmorture. Perhaps it’s time for a career change. It can’t be more dangerous than my current occupation.
“And why would that be so awful, pet, to escape from this? Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t trust me and Rey to take care of you?”
“No, I do. I just…”
“Because if you’re going to be my wife—”
“What?” My heart flat-out stops.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. You said if I’m going to be your wife.”
“I did.”
“That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs and smiles his lazy lopsided grin. “Personal or p
rofessional?”
“Either.”
“You don’t exactly go in for hearts and flowers.”
“That’s true,” I concede, my mouth tugging down at the corners. “But you could at least ask.”
“You are turning into a raging romantic. I ’spose you’ll be wanting a ring and everything.”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” Not that I want some giant gaudy diamond. Not that Crispin could afford it even if that’s what I wanted, but I would like a collar I could wear in public. A little piece of metal that would say to the world, I belong to someone, he’s always thinking of me, we’re responsible for each other. Yes, I’d like a ring.
“Well, if that’s the case…” He shifts, dipping fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. “Will you marry me, India?”
He pulls out a simple band with a small diamond embedded in it and offers it to me. I’m rendered speechless. For a few seconds.
“D’you carry that around with you all the time?”
“Not all the time, no. Only when I’m with you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“How long have you had that?” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that’s how it comes out. Lucky for me, he doesn’t take offense. Half a grin slips over his face.
“Since we signed our last contract.” The single sentence on the Thai takeout menu I keep in my hotel desk drawer. We never bothered to have Matty redraft it. Crispin must’ve gone ring shopping while he was in San Diego with me.
“And it’s just been in your pocket?”
“More or less.”
He must take it out when we play. He’d never ask me then.
“When were you planning to ask me?”
“Whenever I thought there might be a chance in hell you’d say yes. So maybe never.”
That’s adorable. He’s always so freaking adorable, it kills me.
“Well, your timing is impeccable as always, Mr. Ardmore.” I reach for the ring, but he tugs it out of my reach.
Intimate Geography Page 21
