Second Shot

by Shandi Boyes

  “I hate you,” I mumble through a sheet of tears. “I hate you for hurting me. I hate you for making me feel worthless. I hate that scum like you get to breathe when good people like Carey’s family don’t.”

  I raise my tear-flooded eyes from the ground, wanting to ensure my attacker absorbs my gospel words. My mind spirals when the evil set of eyes I'm expecting to stare back at me have been replaced with a pair of remorseful eyes—eyes I’d never forget.

  Carey.

  Chapter 34

  “Whose place is this?” I ask when Carey guides me into an expansive living area of a penthouse apartment in the middle of Ravenshoe. With the aftereffects of my meltdown still playing havoc with my emotions, my voice is hoarse and tainted with grief.

  “This is the old apartment I shared with Hugo when I first moved to Ravenshoe,” Carey informs me, his tone low and dejected. “I thought you’d prefer to talk somewhere private.”

  Smiling to ease the uncertainty on his face, I nod. Carey’s suite is wonderful, but after seeing the concern in Jenni and Emily’s eyes when they arrived at the warehouse minutes after Carey, my desire for privacy is at an absolute pinnacle. They are very sweet and kindhearted girls, and I could tell just from the expressions on their faces they would give anything to ease my pain, but the remorse in their eyes nearly had me backpedaling on my decision to tell Carey the truth. My desire for him not to look at me like they were is so potent, I cashed in the last of my genie wishes on the way here.

  After placing my camera bag on a large chair sitting at the side of a glass entranceway table, Carey throws his keys into a crystal bowl. He has barely spoken a word since he found me huddled on the floor of the warehouse nearly forty-minutes ago. He doesn’t need to speak to express his sentiment. I can feel it radiating out of him. He is nearly as devastated as me. I’ve always said silence can speak volumes. Clearly, Carey has read my silence with acute accuracy.

  Striving to keep my voice neutral, I ask, “Are Hugo and Wesley coming here?”

  I release a relieved breath when Carey briefly shakes his head, grateful I can tell him my secret without additional witnesses. Although Hugo and Wesley already know the worst of my life story, I don’t want them to sway Carey’s response. I know my secret is going to be hard for him to hear, but I want to gage his true response, not one mimicked by those surrounding him.

  Carey stops walking halfway down the hall. His heart is beating so furiously, the veins in his hand thrash against my lower back. “Did you want them to come? I can ask them to come if you don’t feel comfortable being alone with me.”

  My heart aches from the pain radiating in his tone. “I’m perfectly fine being alone with you, Carey. I love our free time,” I reply honestly.

  The weight on my chest lessens when my confession clears some of the pain in Carey’s eyes.

  I lick my parched lips before saying, “I’d like to have a shower, though.” I feel dirty. Not just from sitting on the filthy warehouse floor, but from the entirety of my day.

  “Okay,” Carey replies quietly, his eyes softening with understanding.

  After switching on the faucet in a lavish bathroom and handing me a stack of towels, he paces to the door. “I’ll meet you in the living room?”

  Smiling to calm the heavy frown line between his eyes, I nod my head.

  It isn’t until I'm alone do my nerves really hit me. I’m not nervous about spending one-on-one time with Carey; every minute I spend with him has me craving more. I’m worried about what his reaction is going to be when I share my secret. He has been patient and kind the past two weeks, but I saw the disappointment in his eyes every time I shut down his efforts to discuss my past. I want him to know everything about me, but the idea of him looking at me differently stops me from sharing.

  Dr. McKay has often quoted that sharing my secret frees me from the pain associated with it. I somewhat agree with his statement. Secrets in any form aren’t a good foundation for a relationship, but being stripped bare is a terrifying thing even the world’s strongest person would have difficulty doing. Just knowing it is the right thing to do doesn’t make it any easier.

  That’s why even with my astuteness being buried in anguish, I know why Brandon approached me today. He believes unearthing incriminating evidence against my attackers will cause justice to prevail. What he isn’t aware of is that the likelihood of that happening is nonexistent. After numerous botched attempts at having my attackers charged in Military Court, my dad went one step further—he went after the men he believed were responsible for the failed attempts of justice. He won, meaning not only was a settlement of 3.5 million dollars wired into my bank account three years after my attack, I signed a non-disclosure statement, which ensures I cannot discuss any of the events leading to the lawsuit with anyone—not my attackers youngest brother or the man who pled guilty to a crime he didn’t commit just to save me. That was the biggest mistake I made since my attack. It is one I’ve regretted every day since.

  After taking my time in the shower, I dress in one of Carey’s long-sleeve shirts left slung over his bed. It feels comforting being surrounded by his unique virile scent. While standing at the side of the room, sucking in lung-filling gulps of air, I swing my eyes around the space. The sluggish beat of my heart kicks up when I spot Carey’s wallet sitting on the dresser.

  Allowing my inquisitiveness to get the better of me, I push off my feet and pace towards the mirrored dresser. Warmth fills the hole in the middle of my chest when I spot Malcolm’s ultrasound picture I restored tucked safely into the corner of his wallet. My heart rate kicks into overdrive when I discover another picture slotted next to it. It is the photo I took of Carey and me the first night we spent together. It feels like years has passed since that memory-creating day, but it has only been a matter of months. There is no right time or place for love. It can happen at any time.

  With every second I stare at the Polaroid picture, the agitation swirling my stomach eases. Carey not only kept the picture I snapped of us, he stored it with a photo that means the world to him. That alone makes what I'm about to do a whole heap easier.

  After placing Carey’s wallet back on the dresser, I slowly saunter down the elegant hallway. For every step I take, I exhale nerves and inhale courage. Courage is one muscle in your body that never stops growing.

  My eyes stray away from my bare feet when my body’s perception of Carey activates. He is standing at the side of the living room wearing a pair of shorts and a plain cotton tee. He has a glass of amber-colored liquid in his hand, and his hair is wet as if he has also showered. Sensing my presence, he lifts his downcast gaze to me. Something deep inside me shifts when I see the glossy sheen coating his eyes.

  Seeing him stripped and vulnerable forces me to blurt out, “I was raped six years ago.”

  Carey sucks in a jagged breath, his eyes widening, his jaw tightening. “What?” His one word is so weak I barely hear it.

  Fighting against my wobbly legs, I push off my feet and pad closer to him. He stares at me, his eyes icy and aloof, his fists balled.

  “I was raped six—”

  “I heard what you said. You don’t need to repeat it,” he interrupts, his voice as brittle as my composure. The repulsion attached to his words cuts through me like a hot knife through butter.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” I suggest when I notice the heavy shakes hindering his large frame.

  He runs his hand across the scruff on his chin before he steps deeper into the living room. He doesn’t go to the couch; he moves straight to the liquor cabinet on the far wall to refill his drink. His shaking hands impede his efforts. Fragrant liquor spills over the rim of the glass before sloshing on the expensive-looking carpet. Once his glass is full to the brim with an auburn-colored liquid, he lifts it past his heaving chest and downs the overgenerous serving in one gulp.

  After following the same routine another two times, he spins on his heels to face me. My greatest nightmare confronts me. The pity.
The shame. I see it all reflected in his eyes.

  “Please don’t look at me like that,” I plead through a sob sitting in the back of my throat.

  He tightens his grip on his glass so much it nearly shatters. “Like what? How am I looking at you?”

  “Like I’m a victim,” I mumble as tears burn my eyes. “I’m not a victim, Carey. I’m a survivor. They may have taken away my right to say no, but they did not take away my dignity.”

  “Jesus, Gemma.” I’ve never heard so much pain expressed by two short words. “They?”

  He grits his teeth when I briefly nod my head. I can see his anger—or is it disgust? —twisting all the way from his stomach to his face.

  “I’m going to go,” I mumble, my jittering voice exposing that I'm on the verge of tears.

  Carey locks his eyes with me. His wintry gaze sends a chill down my spine. “Why?” The stabbing ache in my chest doubles from the desolate look in his eyes.

  “It will be better for us both if I leave.”

  “No, Gemma. It won’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’m sorry if I’m not responding how you want me to, but I’m not completely fucking heartless. I just found out the woman I am falling for was raped. Give me a few minutes to absorb this. Give me a few minutes to work out a response.”

  No longer trusting my legs to keep me upright at him declaring he is falling for me, I perch my backside on the couch and watch him in silence. He runs his hand down the side of his face several times while guzzling the amber liquid in his glass at a rate slower than his first three.

  I hate this. I hate that I’m now a contributor to the remorse in his eyes. This is the reason I didn’t want to tell him. My desire not to cause him anymore pain was even more potent than my wish for him not to look at me in pity. Unfortunately, it appears that both of my wishes have gone un-granted.

  “I didn’t tell you my secret because I want your pity, Carey. I told you because I want you to know me. All of me. The good and the bad. But now I understand that was stupid of me to do.”

  “Why?” Carey asks as his remorse-filled eyes bounce between mine.

  It is hard to force the words past the tightness of my throat. “Because you're never going to look at me the same now.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not true, Gemma.” He stares me straight in the eyes. “You know that’s not true. I thought you’d never look at me the same again, but you did. Give me a chance to do the same.”

  I want to believe what he is saying. I want to believe nothing can come between us because we’ve already had more than our share of heartache, but I can’t. The pain in Carey’s eyes tells me I can’t believe that.

  “Gemma, I. . .” His words trail off into silence.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. This is my shame. This is my embarrassment. You don’t have to take responsibility for it.”

  His fists clench into firm balls at his side. “Your shame? Your embarrassment? You were attacked. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Tears trickle down my cheeks. “I'm not ashamed about my attack—that wasn’t my choice. I’m ashamed about the person I became after my attack. I’m ashamed I didn’t tell you earlier. I’m ashamed I didn’t give you the chance to back out at the beginning.” My voice cracks with emotion. “That was selfish of me to do. I should have never taken that right away from you. I should have let you see the true me.”

  “I see you, Gemma! I see you,” he replies, his voice getting louder.

  I viciously shake my head, sending tears springing off my cheeks. “You haven’t seen the ugly and scared Gemma. I kept her hidden from you as I couldn’t stand the thought of you hating what you saw.”

  I shake like a leaf when I stand from the couch and unclick the heavy set of bracelets lining each of my wrists. They drop to the floor with a clatter before scattering around my feet. Carey gasps in a sharp breath when I turn my wrists over to expose the thick red scars slashed up each wrist.

  “Gemma. . .” My stomach lurches into my throat from the devastation in his voice.

  My lips quiver as I begin to speak. “I wanted them to stop lying. And I wanted to save him.”

  Carey’s confused eyes bounce between mine, they are brimming with moisture. “Who?”

  He takes a step back like he’s been physically punched when I mumble, “Hugo.”

  The confusion in his eyes grows, right alongside his anger. His face is red, his fists balled.

  I run my fingers under my eyes, removing the tears flowing down my cheeks faster than my hands can clear them. “When they charged Hugo with my rape, I tried to stop them. I did everything in my power to stop them, but they twisted everything I said. They made it out like Hugo was threatening me, and that my fragile emotional state was playing tricks with my mind. But that wasn’t true. Hugo’s DNA was only under my nails because he saved me from the men hurting me. He didn’t hurt me.”

  Gratitude replaces some of the anger lining Carey’s face.

  My lungs rattle when I struggle to fill them with air. “They were going to find Hugo guilty. He was going to spend time behind bars for helping me,” I confess before dropping my eyes to the ugly red scars on my wrist. “I thought they wouldn’t be able to falsely prosecute him if I wasn’t alive.”

  When Carey steps towards me, I violently shake my head. If I don’t finish my story now, I may never build up the courage again. “Hugo found me. He found me before I bled out. That’s why he pled guilty. He knew I wasn’t strong enough to go back into that courtroom. He knew I had let my attackers win.”

  Carey crosses the room so quickly, he is nothing but a blur. He wraps his arms around me and draws me into his chest. The furious beat of his heart blasts my eardrums when I press my damp face into the curve of his neck, desperately hoping I haven’t broken us before we’ve even truly begun.

  “They never won,” he growls in a low and menacing tone. “If they did, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Steam from my earlier shower billows around us as Carey throws open the bathroom door and steps inside. Still clothed, he twists the faucet on and stands us in the middle of the shower recess. Lukewarm water trickles down my locks, drenching them from the roots to the very end. I close my eyes, letting the warmth of Carey’s body and the heat of the water wash away the negativity drowning me. I can barely breathe through the torrent of tears flooding my cheeks.

  My eyes flutter open when Carey places me on my feet before fiddling with the buttons of my shirt. After undoing the top two buttons, he grasps the hem and pulls it over my head. The modest cotton bra I'm wearing does nothing to hide my aroused state. The wet material clings to my breasts, exposing my rosy pink nipples that are pulled taut and aching with need. Even drowning in despair, I can’t stop my body responding to Carey’s closeness.

  Banding his arms around my back, Carey unlatches the three clips fastening my bra. Not even two seconds later, it joins my shirt on the shower floor. The bristle of his recently trimmed hair grazes the skin on my stomach when he lowers my saturated panties down my quivering thighs. Now my outside matches my inside. I'm stripped, naked and bare.

  After yanking his shirt over his head, Carey releases the drawstrings of his pants. They slump to the floor with a thud. The urge to cry overwhelms me when I notice his penis is thick, heavily veined and jutted, extending well past the rigid bumps of his six pack. Relief clears away some of the heaviness sitting on my chest. Even after I’ve exposed my hideously ugly insides, he still finds me appealing enough to get hard. It gives me hope that maybe one day he will look at me without pity in his eyes.

  We stand huddled together for several moments with nothing but steam between us. Carey doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. I take comfort in his silence. Sometimes silence is more powerful than a million meaningless words.

  I don’t know how much time passes before Carey tightens his grip around my shoulders and confesses, “This is the exact shower I stood in trying to convince myself that wh
at I was feeling for you months ago couldn’t have been real. That there was no way a stranger could fill me with so much hope that not every chapter of my story had been written.”

  I push my face into the space between his pecs, praying the smell of his skin will keep my tears at bay. My efforts are useless when Carey continues speaking. “I never thought I’d be strong enough to move on after losing Jorgie and Malcolm. What I didn’t realize was that the strength I needed wasn’t going to come from me. It was going to come from a person who had a heart strong enough to love me even when I pushed her away.”

  He places his hand under my chin and lifts my head. “That person is you, Gemma. You have the heart of a warrior. Nothing you said today has changed my opinion on that. Nothing you will ever say could change that.”

  Fresh tears prick my eyes when he stares at me in admiration, a look I swore I’d never see beam out of his eyes. “You were right. You are not a victim,” he confirms, quoting what I said earlier. “You’re a survivor, because the fire roaring inside you was greater than the one that tried to destroy you.”

  Epilogue

  Hawke

  Two months later . . .

  Life breathes into my soul when a frisson of awareness jolts through my body. I can’t see Gemma, but I know she is close. Is that wrong of me to say? Is it wrong of me to admit that every minute she spends with me resuscitates me from the man I used to be? For the longest time, I truly believed I died right alongside Jorgie and Malcolm. That my life was over the instant Jorgie took her last breath. As much as it kills me to admit, I don’t feel that way anymore.

  Gemma is slowly guiding me out of the sheltered life I’ve lived the past five years. She’s carefully piecing back parts of me I thought I’d lost, pushing me out of the shadows and exposing the man I was before I lost everything. I’m not saying I'm ever going to fully recover from losing Jorgie and Malcolm. Grief isn’t something you simply get over. It is like an ocean. Sometimes the waves come in hard and fast, other times, you have nothing but a flat and calm current. Gemma understands this. She doesn’t expect an instant switch in my persona, or to take away my pain. She just wants to ease it. Just like I want to do for her as well.