Unstoppable: Truth is Unstoppable (Truth and Love Series)

by Bethany Hensel

  “Did you speak with her at all tonight?”

  “Yeah, she called me. We were supposed to have gone out, but about an hour beforehand she asked if we could reschedule.”

  “Did she give you a reason why?”

  I nod. “She told me her dad asked her to dinner. She didn't want to skip it. The two had been arguing for a few weeks, so I guess this was sort of like the olive branch.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Um, well, there was a—”

  I don't have the chance to finish my answer because right then, I see Dr. Aboud step into the ER lobby. Her scrubs are still on but her gloves are off.

  Lead drops in my stomach.

  Victoria sees her. She stands.

  No. No no no. It's just too soon.

  My legs tremble then almost buckle beneath me as I rush to the door. I feel unbearably slow and clumsy, as if I were thrust into a vat of syrup, the kind that weighs you down, makes you realize the incredible distance you must travel and the fact that you probably won't cover it in time.

  Dr. Aboud has no reason to be out here. Victoria's father was shot in the chest and major damage like that takes major surgery to fix…time-consuming surgery. You’ve got to check the vitals, get him stabilized, order x-rays, CTs, and MRIs, and get him under anesthesia. You’ve got to open his chest, find the bullet, stop the bleeding. It takes hours, not seventy-minutes.

  Unless something went wrong.

  Victoria and Dr. Aboud are face-to-face now. I can almost see the hope radiating from her body as the doctor's mouth moves. I don't hear the words. I don't need to.

  I thrust myself between the automatic door and the wall, unable to wait even a second for the entrance to get wider, and I run across the room. Finally, I am beside Victoria. I catch her just in time: right before she hits the floor, and right after the doctor says how sorry she is.

  DEREK

  The night is so quiet I can hear my car roll along the gravel, can hear each individual stone of Victoria's driveway shift beneath the treads. That soft rumble and crunch is so familiar; it’s the most soothing sound I've heard all night.

  I wipe my eyes then lift Victoria out of the passenger seat. After she fainted, she woke up about ten minutes later completely hysterical. No one could calm her. Dr. Aboud finally had to give her a sedative to knock her out.

  I follow William into the white-stone Tudor house. It looks so barren and large that I'm actually expecting my footsteps to echo. I mean, forget all the sturdy furniture, the hundreds of pictures and paintings on the walls, and the one-of-a-kind rugs on the floors. Echoes come from absences. It's the sound that fills hollow pockets and empty holes. And this great big house with all of its fancy accoutrements has just lost its soul.

  As I follow William upstairs, a high-pitched hum begins going off in my ear. It's not any particular noise; it is, in fact, the lack of noise that is creating this whistle. No TVs, no radios, no ringing telephones. It's the kind of silence you'd probably hear in oblivion.

  As I walk through the house to Victoria's bedroom upstairs (the eighth door on the right) I think again that this is wrong. Victoria shouldn't be here, in this house that is so achingly alive with her father. He's in the woodwork, the crown molding, the paint on the walls, and chairs at the tables. But when I suggested I take her home with me, William was emphatic. The answer was no.

  “If you don't like the arrangements,” he had said, “then leave. Go home.”

  Yeah right. No way was I going to let Victoria out of my sight. I carried her out of the hospital, and I was damn sure carrying her the rest of the way too.

  The second floor of Casa de King could, on a good day, confuse the living life out of you. On a bad day, when you're all bleary-eyed and shattered, it's like a labyrinth with no Golden Thread. I mean, the only reason I don’t get completely turned around is because I’ve been spending so much time here with Victoria lately, working on last-minute graduation things and, the real time-consumer, helping her pack. It’s less than a month before our apartment finally becomes available, and just yesterday it couldn’t come fast enough. I was counting down the days, impatient and anxious and excited as hell. I would will the clock to go faster, mark each finished day on my calendar with a bold red slash.

  Now, I regret ever wanting a minute to pass quicker than it should. Now, I regret wishing time away that was never guaranteed to any of us in the first place. Now, it’s not about going forward. It’s wishing, stupidly wishing, to go back.

  William, surprisingly, walks all the way with me to Victoria’s room. He hangs back as I push her door open and step inside.

  Even though I've seen it before, the space still has impact. It's a vision in white. The color is everywhere and on everything. Her bed is king size with a white, gauzy canopy above it. Her vanity is a young girl's fantasy: bottles, lotions, tubes, and perfumes, one right after the other, sit atop it. No posters adorn her walls, no cute little motifs or signs clutter the paint. We're talking complete sophistication. The first time she invited me over, she teased me I couldn’t come in until I took off my shoes…then socks…then shirt…then pants. I happily obliged. In fact, the only real shock of color in the room is the blue plastic boxes just waiting to be filled. She always did like to put things off to the last minute.

  I lay her gently on the bed and stroke her hair. The strands are matted to her face and neck. She's still wearing that god-awful bloody dress. I want to change her out of the thing here and now but William calls my name. He gestures for me to follow him to the hallway and I do.

  We walk together in silence until we reach the last room on the right. The light is off, but that's okay. I've been here before. I know that the furniture is all hand-crafted, the rugs are all oriental, and there's a gargantuan bust of some ancestor in the corner. And most importantly, I know that this room, for all its fancy decorations, is nothing but a waiting room, a luxurious holding cell. The real space is beyond that door in the far corner: Mr. King's study.

  William says, “Several people from the office will be stopping by in the next few hours. A lot of work needs to be done. I'll be in here if you need me.”

  Wow, he's not wasting any time. His father hasn't been dead for three hours. You'd think work would be the last thing on his mind, but I guess you can’t not think about it. Not when it’s a family business. Not when the head of your family has died.

  Victor King had built an empire and William was his heir apparent, the prince in waiting. It wasn't a question of if he would be given the mantle, but whether he would buckle under its weight or adjust to it proudly.

  “Alright. I'm so sorry again.”

  He nods once. It's almost regal. I take a breath, about to say more, but William turns and disappears inside the study. The door shuts with a quiet click, and I know that it won't reopen anytime soon.

  The carpet swallows my footsteps as I make my way back to Victoria's room. Her skin is cold and clammy as I change her from that dress into one of my t-shirts that I gave her a while ago. The logo on it is faded, and the fabric is so soft it feels like it might disintegrate with one more wash. Then, only after I pull the covers to her chest, do I toe off my shoes and get in bed beside her.

  “I’m here now,” I whisper, pressing her even tighter against me. “I’m here.”

  Her hand is soft when I take it in my own, her pulse steady and strong. The same cannot be said for her breathing. It's like her windpipe is so swollen with grief, even oxygen can't pass without tearing out some part of her. It's a wounded sound.

  A fierce, incredible protectiveness fills me. I kiss that beauty mark on the curve of her shoulder. “I'll take care of you. I promise.”

  I shut my eyes. And I finally let the tears fall.

  VICTORIA

  Derek's grip tightens around me. He squeezes out some of the pain and I nestle against him.

  Maybe I’m dreaming. His skin feels too good. His eyes look too blue, like pristine waters off Italian coast
s or hidden tropical peninsulas. He is too good.

  “Derek.” The word is a whisper. I blink slowly. My eyes are swollen and they burn.

  “Derek.” The word is a plea. My face is scalding and the tears pucker and burst as they fall.

  “Derek.” The word is a cry. A prayer. A call for mercy.

  “I'm here,” he says. “I'm here. I love you.”

  DEREK

  Twenty-Seven Days Before Victor King's Death

  (Afternoon)

  “What would you do if I jammed a knife into my palm right now?”

  I look at her over the rim of my sunglasses. “You don't have a knife.”

  “Hypothetically, Derek.” She smiles. “Come on, future doc-toro. Tell me what you would do if I plunged a knife straight into my palm.” She opens her right hand like a starfish. The skin is smooth, unblemished.

  “Well,” I say, rolling from my stomach to my side, the long beach towel shifting slightly beneath me, “since puncture wounds to the palms actually aren't that severe, I'd just tell you to drive yourself to the hospital.” I smile. “But I'd wait for you back here.”

  Victoria splashes me. “Asshole. You'd really let me bleed all over the place?”

  “Okay, fine. I'd help you look for a towel.”

  She throws more water at me, but we both laugh. “Oh, Derek,” she moans, leaning her head back until it's practically in the water. “Turn off your e-tab and get in the pool. It's too hot to study.”

  Now that's almost true. It is a very hot day, practically scorching. Every so often, I need to wipe the sweat from my forehead. But the constant little splashes Victoria sends my way help keep the heat low enough to be bearable.

  I glance over at her and smile. She’s the picture of summer fun. Relaxed, happy, sitting in a bright orange inner tube on the clear waters of her humongous pool. The pool itself is a thing of beauty. It's shaped like a number nine, and there are little blue tiles on the floor. It goes from two feet deep to twelve. Foliage of all shapes and sizes surrounds it, providing a thick green curtain of privacy. When I first saw it, I was totally overwhelmed. I love swimming, and this pool was a dream. I got in, and I just luxuriated in it. Victoria complained that I was cheating on her. I absolutely agreed.

  “I'll come in in a minute,” I say, rolling back onto my stomach. I feel as if I'm wearing a wool parka, it’s so hot.

  Victoria propels herself towards me, her wrists flicking in the water. The inner tube spins her lazily several times before it finally bumps into the side of the pool nearest me. “What are you looking at, anyway?”

  I tap the corner of my screen so it reverts to the cover, then I enlarge it. I raise it up for her to see. Victoria inclines her head, then purses her lips. She extends her hand, “Give me your tablet.”

  “Are you gonna throw it in the water?”

  She scoffs. “I promise I won't ruin it. I just want to see the thing that keeps my boyfriend's attention away from me for so long every day.”

  I try to gauge her sincerity, but her heart-shaped sunglasses make it impossible to tell. I finally say, “If you even dip this in the water, I will—I don't know—punch a hole in your inner tube.”

  “Ew. That didn't sound disgusting.”

  Chuckling, I hand her my e-tablet then turn on my back, letting the sun scorch my chest and stomach. It hurts, in a good way. I shut my eyes and relax into the heat.

  “So,” Victoria says, “if I asked you something from this, would you know the answer?”

  “Probably.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Well, maybe. It depends.”

  “Hmmm. Not sounding so confident anymore, are you?”

  I turn my head and look at her. “I know what's in that book.”

  Victoria taps the screen. After a moment, she asks, “What are erythrocytes?”

  “Easy. They're red blood cells.”

  “Very good.” Another tap. “Taste buds are located on the upper surface of the tongue within tiny elevations called?”

  I turn my head back and shut my eyes. “What are papillae?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Thank you. Can I get metabolism for two hundred, please?”

  “Uh...no, you cannot. I’m not on that chapter and don’t want to look for it. So instead, I'll say: multiple choice. Persons having the condition called strabismus have a condition in which they a) cannot see red or green color, b) light rays focus behind the retina, c) the optic disk is damaged, or d) the eyes do not converge together.”

  “Strabismus is seeing two images instead of one, I think. So I will go with D.”

  “Well, Derek. That was a good decision you made. D is the correct answer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where is the masseter located?”

  “Face.”

  “Popliteal artery?”

  “Leg.”

  “Ulner nerve?”

  “Arm. Now give me a question that actually requires some neurological activity.” I add, “That's just a fancy way of saying to make it a hard one.”

  “Fine. What does the thyroid gland do?”

  “It secretes thyroxine, triiodothyronine, and calcitonin. It's located in the neck.” I refrain from saying “boo-ya.” Just barely. I prop myself up on my elbows and lower my sunglasses to the tip of my nose. I have to squint in the blinding brightness, and there’s a big dot where Victoria is floating, but it goes away just in time for me to see her grin.

  And to see her lift my e-tab between two fingers and hold it straight over the water.

  I sit up, my body going tense. She bites her bottom lip.

  “Victoria,” I warn. “Don't do it.”

  “Oh my,” she says breathlessly, “it's so slippery. I better not drop it. I better not let it just slip through my—ah!” Victoria suddenly yelps as my e-tablet falls from her fingers. She tries to grab it, but to no avail. It lands in the water with an impressive phlunk.

  Mouth agape, Victoria watches it sink to the bottom. We're both silent.

  “Okay,” she says, “that was a total accident.”

  Without warning, I throw myself in the water. The splash I send up is humongous, and Victoria screams as the water hits her. She propels herself back from me.

  “No, Derek! Get away!”

  I laugh at her frenzied attempt to paddle away from me. I catch her in no time, grabbing her ankle in my hands.

  “No!” she yells. “I don't want to get my hair wet! I just straightened it! It took me two hours to—”

  I pull her into the water.

  She comes up sputtering and shrieking, batting at me with wet hands. But she's laughing, too. In between all that noise and commotion, we're both laughing. I dive beneath the surface and swim to the bottom. I grab my e-tablet, then push myself from the blue-tiled floor to the top again. I hold it up in all its dripping glory for Victoria to see.

  “You know,” she says, whipping off her sunglasses, “if your damn tab wasn't so slick, I would never have dropped it.”

  I chuckle. It had cost over three hundred bucks, but the sight of Victoria's face right after it fell into the water, all aghast and shocked and crazy, was worth every penny. I tap on the screen, try to pull up the book and its documents. Nothing. Ruined. With a sigh, I throw it over my shoulder.

  Victoria's arms come around me, lithe and strong against my neck. Water droplets roll from her hairline to the curve of her chin. Her entire body glistens. She kisses me, the heat from her mouth curling all the way down to my center. The tip of her tongue strokes past the seam of my lips, opening them with one easy little slide. The water gently laps at our bodies. Weightless and floating, I feel as if I'm in a dream.

  Victoria has that effect on me.

  She breathes between kisses. “Do I have you to myself now?”

  Sighing, I move my mouth to her ear. “For now.”

  “No. All day.”

  “Victoria...”

  She pulls away from me. “You like staring a
t bodies more than you like touching them.”

  “What?” I ask, highly amused.

  “It's true,” she says, swimming to the other side of the pool. I follow after her with my own long, measured strokes. “You spend all your days looking at your stupid digitals, figuring out which bone is connected to which bone. You stare at photos of naked people. You memorize every line of them.” She frowns over her shoulder at me. “I want you to memorize my lines.”

  I grab her wrist and turn her to face me. I run my hands down her wet body, her skin as slippery as ice but definitely not cold. I kiss her again, then bite her lower lip gently. I lick the corner of her mouth. I bury my face against the side of her neck and squeeze my arms around her even tighter, loving her body pressed to mine.

  “I dream about your body,” I say. “I fantasize about your body.”

  Victoria's moan gets caught in the strands of my hair; I can feel the vibrations roll throughout my head. They make me drunk and dizzy in ways I am only ever with Victoria. I rock my hips against hers, and this time it's me that moans, the sound landing right in the curve of her ear. She shivers, and her body moves up and down.

  Her arms tighten around me. Her legs wind around my waist. I move my lips from her neck back to her mouth. She tastes good. Really good.

  Somehow, we've floated to the wall of the deepest section in the pool. Her back bumps against it, trapping my hands against the hard cement and her pliant body. I grip her waist and hoist her up to the edge. From her hips to her outer thighs to the curves of her knees and all the way to her shapely calves, I run my hands along her skin. I squeeze the arches of her feet. Then, looking straight into her eyes, I kiss the inside of her left knee.

  “Vastus medialis.”

  Victoria smiles.

  I swim forward a bit, opening her legs until I am right between them. I kiss her farther up and whisper against her skin, “Gracillis.”