by Debby Conrad
She told herself it was all a bad dream, that it wasn’t happening, and then he pushed his way inside her. He was rough, and just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he withdrew. She cried with relief until she realized he was touching her butt, pressing a finger inside her anus.
“Nooooo!” she screamed into the rag, her protest no louder than a humming sound. And then he forced himself into her, tearing and ripping her insides until he finally ejaculated.
When it was over, he placed his mouth near her ear and whispered her name. “Hollin,” was all he said. Then a hand went to her throat, and she thought he was surely going to strangle her. But instead, he jerked the locket, the one her mother and stepfather had given her for her thirteenth birthday, from her neck, the chain snapping with a tiny clink.
Placing his hand on the back of her head, he pressed her face into the dirt and held it until she couldn’t breathe any longer. She blinked, silently begging him not to kill her, and then he released her, lifting his weight from her.
She took several lungfuls of air, noticing for the first time the sweet, cloying smell around her. Lilies. She was lying next to the patch of lilies that lined the garage wall.
She heard him rustling with his clothing as he restored himself, and caught sight of his shoes as he disappeared over the bank. Penny loafers. She also noticed his head was covered with something dark. A ski mask.
She lifted her head and yanked the rag from her mouth. She tried to get up on her elbows and knees, but couldn’t. She was too weak, in too much pain. She collapsed against the ground, facing the patch of lilies and the rich soil beneath them. A wave of nausea rolled through her and she vomited.
Then she passed out.
Rachel was the one who found her, hours later. She helped her into the house, and up the stairs. Rachel wanted to call the sheriff, but Hollin had begged her not to. She felt dirty, ashamed. She couldn’t bare the thought of being questioned, poked, prodded. Besides, she couldn’t identify anyone. It had all happened so fast, and yet while he was hurting her it seemed as if it had gone on forever.
Rachel bathed her, made her a cup of tea, which Hollin didn’t drink, and crawled into bed with her, promising they would figure it out in the morning.
The next day Rachel called Brad. He came home from school, cried when Rachel told him what happened. He sat with Hollin every night for a week until she fell asleep. They told Josephine that Hollin had slipped and fallen on the diving board, and assured the woman Hollin would be as good as new in a few days. Hollin couldn’t bear it if the woman blamed herself for what happened, for not keeping a better watch on her and Rachel.
But after a week went by, Hollin still didn’t have the strength or desire to get out of bed and realized she needed to talk to someone, to deal with what happened to her. And she wanted the bastard, whoever it was, to pay.
Rachel called the sheriff, and after combing the area by the garage, he found a pocketknife with the initials GW. Hollin had no choice but to tell him about the party at the trailer, and all the other humiliating details of that night. And then she had to tell her story again in court. By the time her case had gone to trial, she truly believed, without a shadow of doubt, that Griffin Wells was the one who had raped her.
#
The present
Hollin sat up in bed, and reached for the lamp on the beside table. The room was soon bathed in soft light and she shivered. She hadn’t relived the incident or her past in years. It was too painful, too shameful, to face the memories. But if she was going to live in Whisper Lake, she had no other choice but to face it head-on.
She could hardly believe her memory was so clear after thirteen years, and yet at the trial it had been choppy, bits and pieces coming to her a little at a time.
But there was no denying what she’d remembered just now. She hadn’t seen a pocketknife on the ground that night. Which meant Griffin had been telling the truth. Someone had planted it. But who?
The other thing she hadn’t remembered until now was the man who had hurt her was wearing penny loafers. Griffin had worn boots that night. She knew because she’d watched him put his jeans on and zip the scuffed black boots before taking her home.
Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Not only for her loss but Griffin’s as well. She’d sent him to prison for three years for a crime he hadn’t committed. He’d been labeled by the town as some horrible, vile creature as if he wasn’t human.
And it’s all my fault.
She had to apologize to him. But first she had to find Rachel. What was she planning? And if Rachel knew who it was who had hurt her, why hadn’t she said so before now?
She remembered the look on Rachel’s face when Hollin had said she didn’t think Griffin would hurt her.
“No, he’s not going to hurt you. Unless he decides to get even.”
What on earth had she meant by that?
Jerking the covers back, she hopped out of bed. She ran down the stairs, without any regard for the way she was dressed--in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing her bare feet into a pair of old loafers, she grabbed her trench coat, purse and the phone book from the drawer in the hall table, and ran out into the night.
She had to find Rachel. Before it was too late.
#
“Rachel, where are you?” Hollin screamed in frustration, her voice reverberating off the dark interior of her car. She’d driven up and down practically every road in town, and there was no sign of Rachel’s mustang anywhere.
But as she drove past the Peacock Motel for the third time, something made her stop and turn into the parking lot. One room had the lights on inside. Yet there were no cars in the parking lot. She found that odd.
Curious, she drove around back. There sat Rachel’s car beside a Van.
Hollin breathed a sigh of relief and drove back around to the front. She got out of the car, approached the unit with the burning light and knocked on the door.
About to push her way inside when Rachel, or maybe Randy, answered, Hollin took a step forward when the door opened, and then she froze. She didn’t recognize the tall, thin, bald man staring down at her. He was wearing nothing but a pair of blue jeans. His bare chest was covered with tattoos, and she found herself wincing at what must have been a long and painful ordeal. There didn’t seem to be one square inch of unadorned skin as far as she could see.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was looking for my sister, and I seem to have gotten the wrong room.”
“Rachel’s asleep,” he said, stepping away from the doorway and jerking his head toward the bed.
Hollin’s gaze strayed to the bed to her sleeping sister, then back up into the stranger’s eyes. “You know who I am?” she asked, surprised.
Looking put out, he released a long breath. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He had a gold hoop in one ear and looked to be in his early to mid thirties. “Yes,” he said without so much as a smile. “I know who you are.”
“I see.” Now that she’d found Rachel, she had no idea what to do next. Noticing the empty bottle of gin on the bedside table meant her sister wasn’t going to be in any shape to talk, even if Hollin insisted on trying to wake her. She pulled her coat around her more tightly. There was something about the man that made her uncomfortable. “I don’t appreciate your getting my sister drunk and taking advantage of her.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
She was trying to decide whether to believe him or not when she noticed the wedding ring on his finger. It figured. Shaking her head with obvious disgust, she said, “Why don’t you go home to your wife, and I’ll stay here with Rachel.”
He blinked several times. “My wife is dead. I buried Sandra five weeks ago today.”
Her mouth fell open, and she felt ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Look, I just want to take my sister home and--”
“She’s not going anywhere tonight.”
Hollin was about to open her mouth in protest when he stopped her cold.
“My name is Travis. Travis Bowman. Has Rachel even mentioned me?”
This time Hollin was the one to blink. She had no idea who this man was, nor what he meant to Rachel. And her sister certainly hadn’t mentioned she was having an affair with a widower.
“Never mind. It’s obvious she hasn’t. Good night, Ms. Pierce.”
Hollin was soon facing a closed door.
#
He’d lost her. Where the hell had she gone?
When she’d run out of the house shortly after midnight he’d followed her as she zigzagged through town. She’d driven up and down the main roads several times, turning into the parking lots of every business establishment she’d come to. He deserved a medal for keeping up with her and yet staying back far enough to not be seen. Maybe he should have been a private detective. He almost chuckled, and would have if he wasn’t so pissed off at the moment.
He’d hidden behind a building across from the Peacock Motel while she’d chatted with Travis Bowman, the guy who owned the tattoo parlor just outside of town. It was obvious Hollin was searching for something, or someone. But if it wasn’t Rachel, then what? Who?
And then, after more than three hours she’d stopped right in the middle of Baker Street, turned on the interior light, and was reading. Probably something in that phone book she’d tossed in her car. He’d had no choice but to pass her. He’d turned the corner, planning to go around the block and then swing around behind her when he ran out of gas.
He’d sworn and punched the steering wheel with his fist several times all to no avail. His hand still throbbed with pain.
Thinking maybe he could catch her on foot, he’d jumped out of his car and headed back to Baker Street. But by the time he’d run around the corner she was gone.
He swore some more as he took his time getting back to his car. No sense ruining his new shoes now. He’d paid a fortune for the Italian leather penny loafers. He always wore penny loafers. They were classics.
Climbing into his car, he sat there a moment, trying to figure out where Hollin could have possibly gone.
That morning, he’d watched her get Chelsea on the school bus. Which is something he’d never seen that bitch Rachel do. Then he’d followed Hollin out to Griffin Wells’s old place. That fucking shit hole. Why the hell had she gone there?
He’d left his car in a thicket of trees about three hundred yards back and had walked the rest of the way. He’d thought about surprising her--and wouldn’t she have been surprised if he’d walked in on her?--when he’d heard a vehicle coming down the road.
He’d hid behind an old shed when he realized it was Wells. The man had also parked a ways back, maybe because he’d seen Hollin’s car parked in the drive. Unless he’d planned on meeting her there.
The whole thing hadn’t made any sense, had made even less sense when he’d crept to the window and seen them on the bed. Wells on top of her, kissing her.
He’d turned quickly away, his rage exploding inside. He’d planned on making her his own, convincing her they were meant for each other. But now, he had no use for her. The fucking bitch. She was no better than her sister, the whore. And if he couldn’t have Hollin, then no one was going to have her. Especially not that piece of trailer trash Griffin Wells.
CHAPTER NINE
Griffin’s eyes popped open. Something had woken him. He listened for a moment. Nothing. And then there it was again. Pounding. Too tired and groggy to care who was at the door at four in the morning--according to the alarm clock on the nightstand--he rolled over, covered his head with the feather pillow and closed his eyes.
And then the doorbell sounded, not once but four times in a row. “Dammit!” Griffin threw the covers back, rolled out of bed and headed for the hall when he realized he was buck naked. He padded back to his room, shoved his legs in a pair of blue jeans and tugged the zipper up as he made his way to the front door. The ceramic tile entry was cool on his bare feet, alerting his senses like a cup of strong, black coffee.
Through the side panel window he spotted the shadow of a woman standing on his front porch. He flicked on the porch light. Hollin Pierce stared back at him, her eyes wide and questioning.
He hesitated a moment before unlocking and opening the door. What in hell could she possibly want at this hour of the morning?
Swinging the door open, he took in her disheveled look. She was wearing the tan trench coat she’d worn yesterday morning--or was that this morning?--it didn’t matter. The coat was open, the belt ties hanging loose at her sides. Underneath the coat she wore pale blue boxers and a matching T-shirt. Pajamas maybe? Her long legs were bare, a pair of brown loafers covered her feet. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her blond hair had that I’ve-just-been-fucked look. Griffin wanted to laugh.
Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d bet his life on it.
“Did you come to face some more of your past?” he asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.
She gripped the edges of her coat, pulled it closed in front of her. “You could say that.” She swallowed, glanced past his shoulder as if she were looking for something, someone. “Did I interrupt you?”
“No, I was just sleeping, nothing important.”
She lowered her gaze from his face, taking in his bare chest, his jeans, bare feet. She glanced up again. “I’m sorry. Can I come in?”
Griffin sighed impatiently, leaning his hand against the doorframe to keep her from passing. “What do you want, Hollin?”
She took a step back, chewed on her lip while she seemed to be weighing her thoughts. “I believe you.”
Her words barely registered as he continued to stare at her, and then something in her eyes flickered. Not hatred. It was sorrow, shame maybe.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘I believe you.’ I know it wasn’t you who raped me.”
Griffin sucked in a deep cleansing breath. A huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his chest. He’d waited for years to hear her say that, and now that she had he didn’t know how to respond. He simply stepped away from the door and allowed her to enter. Closing the door behind her with a click, he felt for the wall switch and flicked it on.
Light spilled from the overhead chandelier, the tiny candle lights glimmering with gusto. He blinked, letting his eyes come into focus. Running a hand through his hair, he studied her. “Did you get out of bed to tell me this?”
She forced her lips to curl into a smile, and he couldn’t help but notice that tiny mole beside her top lip. “Sort of. Actually, I was out looking for Rachel.”
“And you thought she might be here?”
“Yes. No, not really. I remember you said you bought a house across the lake. I saw your truck in the drive and . . .” She paused, licking her dry lips. “It’s kind of a long story. Can we please sit down somewhere and talk?”
Whatever she was trying to tell him didn’t make sense. And although he didn’t owe her the courtesy of inviting her inside, let alone to sit down, he led the way across the hall to the library. He turned on a lamp and nodded at the small leather sofa. “Have a seat.”
He saw her glancing around the room that had taken him months to remodel. The rich wood paneling now looked like new, the original hardwood floors sanded and sealed, and the built-in bookshelves had also been preserved.
“I love this room. It’s so homey. Did you do all the renovations yourself?”
“Yes.” He went to the teakwood bar he’d added while remodeling. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head, then seemed to change her mind. “Maybe a little wine, if you have any.”
Griffin opened the small refrigerator, watching her from the mirror behind the bar. “White? Red?”
“White sounds good.”
He pulled out a bottle of Chablis, turned to face her and held it up for her inspection.
“That’s fine,” she said.
He opened the bottle, took a wine glass from the shelf and fil
led it. After he made himself a scotch, he grabbed a napkin and carried the drinks over to the sofa. He handed her the wine and napkin, then took the chair opposite the sofa.
Watching as she took a small sip from her glass, he took a pull from his own drink. He probably should have made a pot of coffee, since he needed to go to work soon, but the warm golden liquid felt good going down.
There was a long and awkward period of silence. Griffin kept his gaze on Hollin as her own gaze flittered around the room.
“So,” he prompted, his voice a little louder than he’d intended. “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.”
Her unsteady hand jerked, the wine splashing over the glass and onto the front of her coat. She let out a tiny squeal. Leaning forward, she set the near empty glass on the coffee table and pressed the napkin to the wet spot. She pulled the coat off her shoulders and shook her arms free then continued to blot. Apparently the wine had soaked through the coat as it had left a wet spot on the front of her T-shirt, just over her right breast.
She shivered, must have realized her shirt was wet and brought the napkin to her breast. Just below her hand, her nipple hardened into a tiny peak. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Griffin sat rigid in his chair, totally mesmerized with watching her.
“Do you have another napkin?”
“What?” Quickly, his gaze shot to meet hers. “Oh, sure.” He hurried to the bar, grabbed a stack of napkins and handed them to her.
He wasn’t aware he was standing over her, staring down at her nipple through the thin, blue cotton until he saw her press the coat to her chest and hold it there. He felt like a total pervert. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder what she had on underneath the skimpy boxers. Probably nothing but warm, bare skin.
Swearing silently, he downed his drink, set the glass on the coffee table and walked behind the sofa. Hitting the switch for the gas logs in the fireplace, he waited until the fire roared to life. “I’ll go find something for you to wear.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, but he was already in the hall, his feet padding across the tile floor.
