by Susan Arden
She removed her keys from her purse and unlocked her car door. Climbing inside her car, she glanced around, taking more than her usual amount of time to back out. Once outside and driving toward the treatment center, she felt better, but not at her best. Some dark, lurking feeling sank deeper into her bones and pricked her nerves.
This unease had to be stemming from all the worry over the lawsuit. She drew her brows together at the thought that Brandon was playing with fire if he went after Beau and his family. She didn’t know what kind of bad press Beau’s family was capable of generating, but she imagined they'd do something to trash the club. She put on her blinker and waited to turn into the parking lot of the treatment center. She inhaled sharply when she thought she saw Beau’s car drive by, then dismissed the idea just as quickly. It was a product of her imagination, and what some of her patients liked to do. If they thought hard enough about something and suddenly it seemed to materialize, it scared them into thinking the source of their imagination was real.
She parked, and refused to think another thought about Beau or his idiotic life. He’d get what he deserved, and that would be the end of that.
“Hello,” she said, entering the center’s lobby. She snapped on her ID badge and signed in. “I’m here to see Selma and Esme Jamison.”
“They’re a handful,” the receptionist at front desk said.
“So nice to be full of life,” Mia said.
“Or maybe just plain full of spit and vinegar,” the woman said tersely, shaking her head. “They’re in rare form from when they arrived.”
Mia stared back at the woman, weighing the off-handed observation and her own concern. It was a turn from the self-medicating women, who'd giggled incessantly and seemed unfazed by anything. “I signed into office number three.”
The receptionist picked up the phone. “I’ll let the ladies know where you are.”
Mia settled into the office and turned off the ringer from her phone. Selma and Esme silently traipsed through the doorway and reached for a hug. It was usually a bit over the top, but not today. They did rapid hug-pats and then both sat down in front of her. Usually when they greeted her, it was rambunctious and the color was high on their faces.
Selma plucked at the hem of her shirt, keeping her eyes downcast, while Esme curled hands into fists on her lap. Mia noted their ashen complexions and that today they were on edge and irritated, both wearing sullen expressions.
“How’s your weekend been?” she asked.
The girls exchanged their signature glance. Only today, it wasn’t followed by any laughter or aimless chatter. “Daddy came and said he wants us to leave here. Next week,” Selma said.
“We don’t want to go.” Esme added.
“Because you’re not ready?” Mia asked.
The girls inhaled and Selma said, “We don’t want to go back. To live with…anywhere near him.”
Mia focused her attention more closely on the girls, but refrained from asking anything just yet. It was time for them to talk. She crossed her legs and shifted her gaze from Selma to Esme. Waiting.
Selma continued, pulling on the front of her shirt and shaking her head. She glanced down to her lap. “He hurt us. Terribly.” Tears spilled down her face.
She grabbed a handful of tissues and handed them to Selma. “Can you tell me about it?” she asked softly.
“We were just so little. Not even ten,” Selma sobbed harder.
The skin over Mia’s body turned cold. She stilled in her seat. “What happened?” Mia asked.
More tears fell down Selma’s face, and then it was Esme who started talking. “We were nine. Too little to know what to do. Or who to go to. The fucking bastard raped us. First me. Then her! I want to kill him!”
Were they talking about their father? Mia slowly nodded. “Who, Esme?”
“Our uncle. He still lives with Daddy. My father’s sister came to live with us, along with her husband. He’s the one. If we go back, he’ll just do it again. He won’t stop,” Esme snapped.
“Yes. He will. He can be stopped,” Mia said firmly.
“How?” Selma wiped her eyes.
Mia had to give them the means to stop this, and it wasn’t going to be easy. “What he’s doing is a crime.”
Selma shook her head. “This will ruin our daddy’s life. His church. His whole existence. He’ll hate us worse than he already does.”
“No. He won’t hate you.” Mia regarded her patients and noted their distress levels. So far they were handling this admission, but she needed to get ahold of the treatment psychologist.
Esme shook her head. “I got pregnant from the cocksucker and my father thought I was some sort of tramp. Daddy made me get an abortion. My aunt took us away from here for the summer, along with her husband, when we were in high school. Ms. Santero, our uncle threatened to tell the church that we were sluts and that I had that abortion, unless we gave in to him during the summer, and beyond. Don’t you see how that will ruin our father’s life? Even now, our uncle still makes threats, and expects we’ll let him continue to…still let him…shit! I can’t even fucking think straight.”
Esme stopped talking, her face as red as a beet. Mia had to ask. “Did your father ever suspect anything?”
“No!” they yelled, in unison.
Esme stared back at Mia, wide blue eyes unblinking. “We can’t report him.”
“Don’t ask us to. Please,” Selma said.
“I don’t know if this will impact your father’s church or his career, but he’d want you protected. Your father would want you to get help.”
Selma gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white. “I can’t.”
Mia inhaled, going for a different route. “If we don’t stop your aunt’s husband, he could do this to some other girls.”
“We don’t want that,” Esme replied, her voice breaking.
“Then it’s time to stop him,” Mia said softly. “I’ll help.”
“We don’t want to see him,” Selma murmured, and her sister nodded in agreement.
“Right now, you’re safe here. Your healing will only begin when you feel safe all the time. Do you understand how important that concept is for your recovery?” Mia asked.
They exchanged a long, yearning look with one another and she didn’t press them. They could bolt out that door and not return if they thought they might have to go back to the scene of their abuse.
“Our aunt knows. I told her once. She slapped my face and accused me of being a liar,” Esme said.
These poor girls. No. She couldn’t feel pity for her patients. That would work in reverse. She believed in them and the work she did. They would do more than survive; they would triumph and overcome this ordeal. They were at the beginning of starting a new life.
“We would be like our aunt, if we did nothing,” Selma finally said. “Esme?”
Her sister began to cry. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”
“No. You do have a choice. Several, in fact. Which one will give you the power to change?”
Tears ran down the girls’ faces and they exchanged anguished glances. Mia held back from saying more, giving them time to digest this information.
“I guess.” Esme replied and glanced over to her sister, then looked back at Mia. “Reporting him.”
“Can you make a statement? In writing?” Mia asked.
“Will you stay?” Selma asked.
“Yes. I’ll be here, right next to both of you. If that’s what you’d like,” she reassured them.
It took an hour for the on-call psychologist, Dr. Trish Cane, to arrive. After talking with her and receiving a thumbs-up, Mia spoke with Esme and Selma for almost an hour before the girls were in agreement on actually making an official statement to the police. She and Dr. Cane convinced the girls to let a police officer, specially trained in childhood sexual abuse, come and take their statement. After they’d finished their statements, the officer assured them this could be expedited to the
district attorney on Monday, who would decide the specific charges that would be filed. This sleepy little town was about to be shaken awake. First bank fraud, and now a horrific case of child abuse.
Talk about pouring when it rained. No way was the ropes course tutorial still going on. Probably a good thing. Her head throbbed with a migraine that felt like ice picks were poking into the backs of her eyeballs. She collected her bag, tucking away her tablet computer, and smiled as Dr. Cane walked into the meeting room.
“Taking off?” Dr. Cane held out her cell phone. “Found this on the table.”
“Ah. I’m grateful.” Straightening, Mia smiled, but when she nodded another jolt of lancing pain shot through her head. She tucked her phone in the pocket of her sweater and grasped Dr. Cane’s outstretched hand. “It’s been good working with you.”
“How are you doing?” Dr. Cane asked, shaking her hand.
Mia shrugged. “Pleased with my patients’ progress.”
“I am too. It’s remarkable.” Dr. Cane held out a business card. “Take this. In case you need to talk. This type of case is difficult. My personal number is on the back. I’m more than impressed by what you have done for your patients. Their lives were dangling by a thread, and it took someone to reach out to them and connect. Mr. Jamison has agreed to family therapy and the girls are staying here. Indefinitely. The girls and their father can begin to heal now.”
“I’d like to try some art therapy with them. Utilize other modalities.”
“Include your recommendations in your report,” Dr. Cane nodded. “I’d like to hear some of your ideas. It’s easy to get stuck in a rut.”
“I’m learning the art of bending, myself,” she laughed.
“Then count me in, too. When you graduate, I’m certain we can find a place for you here.”
“Thanks. I’m considering my options. The offer definitely sounds inviting.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
mia peered upward, scanning the endless grey skies, and tried to decide if snow was coming. Once again, she entered the front doorway of her apartment building without having to use her key and recalled Brandon’s reminder about calling maintenance.
She hadn’t been back to check on the apartment until today. Guess she’d tell her hardheaded cowboy he was needed. He was so overprotective, but in a warm, fuzzy, and totally smexy way. Compared with the variety of overprotectiveness she’d grown up with, Brandon gave her wings; far, far different from the tactics her father employed.
Her family’s overbearing protectiveness squelched her attempts at spreading her wings, whereas Brandon’s acted like a foothold on which she could find her balance and thrive. He helped her discover and tease out the truth about herself, not to question and doubt her abilities. Brandon had given her a vantage point from which to fly. In a raging storm that had involved the worst-case scenario of ex-lovers, she and Brandon had found each other. And now, she wasn’t about to let him go. Paris no longer seemed like an inhibiting place to live, not with her cowboy lover pushing her boundaries, and unlocking the door to her heart.
He’d more than likely want to come over and get her if he suspected she wasn’t feeling well. More work for his overblown schedule if she called to tell him she was exhausted. No way would she do that to Brandon. She’d catch a short catnap and be raring to go.
Dani wouldn’t be here, not with Brandon’s insistence that they both wait until the lawsuit concluded to move back in, so catching some Z’s was a possibility. Without meaning to, Mia exhaled a cross between a hum and a moan in wishing Brandon was there with her. Lost in her swirling thoughts, she found herself in front of her apartment door and bent down to pick up the box sitting to the side of her doorway.
The box was addressed to her and instantly her lips bowed upward as a cloud of heat blossomed over her cheeks. She lightly shook the package, envisioning the sexy toys she’d ordered. She quickly scanned the outside of the box, wondering if the delivery person was now privy to her growing fascination with being a submissive. Thank God the box had arrived with a nondescript packing label. Shifting the box on her hip, she dug out her keys from her pocket.
“Great. Another busted lock,” she muttered to herself as the doorknob jiggled loosely in her hand. It was ready to fall off. Somewhere inside her place she had a screwdriver. Crap, she didn’t know the first thing about replacing a doorknob, but tightening the screws ought to help.
She pushed inside, cradling the box, and being careful not to let the doorknob fall off completely. That would be rich, if Brandon arrived here and she had no lock or doorknob at all on her door. He’d make use of the paddle inside this box in a heartbeat. She sighed, tossing her keys on the cocktail table, and shaking her head. More shards of pain stabbed behind her eyes. Argh! Ibuprofen and some water and I’ll be ready for some cowboy action. She set the box and her bag on the kitchen counter and picked up a glass. Turning on the faucet, Mia closed her eyes and enjoyed a hot fantasy of riding her dominating stud. Oh, his ability to make her scream… she laughed softly.
“You won’t be laughing for long, bitch,” Beau’s voice flared from behind her.
The sound of his voice made her jump. Uncontrollably, she winced and dropped the glass in the sink. The water splashed, wetting her and the counter when the glass shattered.
She whirled around to face Beau standing in the kitchen doorway and froze, taking in his stance and the way he had his hands braced on the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
His eyes roamed over her. He crossed his arms over his chest, and shook his head. “Oh, I think you know why I’m here.”
He wore black leather gloves; in fact, he wore black from head to foot instead of his usual three-piece banker’s suit. The clatter of her accelerated heartbeat drowned out her thoughts for a second. Oh, God! She had no desire to be the same room as him, but it also irritated her that he believed he could show up and try to intimidate her.
“No. I don’t. There’s nothing left between us.” She swallowed as the hairs on the back of her neck rose along with her temper. She struggled to remain civil. “I want you to leave. Now.”
Beau smiled. “That’s not happening.” He walked over to her and the cold fury in his eyes pierced her feigned calmness. “You gonna get that or flood this rat trap?”
“No one invited you here.” Rat trap? He’d always alluded that her apartment was a dump. He reached out and tapped her hand. She flinched as he moved closer. “Get away from me,” she snapped.
He reached behind her to turn off the water still running in the sink. She tried to step away but he grabbed her arm. “Where are you going, sweetness?”
“Don’t touch me!” She jerked her arm to get away, and he retaliated by twisting both her arms behind her back, forcing her against the counter, and then pressing his body into hers.
“I’ll fucking touch you any way I please, and you’ll beg me for more. We’re going to do all those things I wanted and you denied me. Leading me on, then acting timid, when all along you’re the kind of woman who needs to be taught her place. Wants to be taught her place. Why didn’t you ever just let me have my way? I could have given you more pleasure than that pervert you turned to, and this whole fucked-up mess could have been avoided.”
“Get off me!” She struggled to get free, pulling against his grasp, and trying to kick him off. “You have no idea how to treat a lady,” she panted.
“Now there's where you’re wrong.” He fisted her hair, yanking her body towards his. “See, there’s a difference between how to treat a lady and how to treat a tramp.” He backhanded her across the face, and the blow delivered a jolt of pain to her cheekbone. Beau spun her around, forcing her face against the cabinet as he pumped his hips into her. “I’m going to fuck you every which way from Sunday, and watch others do the same.”
“You’re an animal, and you’re going to prison,” she said, straining to get free.
“No. I’m going to disappear. But don
’t think your friend is going to walk away clean. I got enough on him and his little wife to blow up in his face. Enough to shut down that club of his and taint his whole family’s reputation once the press gets ahold of it all. Yeah, don’t think I don’t know he’s a two-timing fucker. He plays it cool, but does his family know he runs a sex club and is married, with a wife who watches him with other women? Wish I could see their faces when the front page reads Local Club Promotes Sex Slave Trade.”
“That’s a lie!” she yelled, and he laughed in her ear. She sputtered, “You’re twisted!”
He let her go all of a sudden. “Turn around,” he said, his voice gone steely.
“Just go, Beau.”
“Turn the fuck around!” he snarled.
Slowly she turned, her body trembling, but she refused to let him see she was shaken. She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “You need help,” she said evenly.
“Don’t you ever try to tell me what I need.” Beau slapped her using an open palm against her cheek. Then, just as fast, backhanded the other side of her face.
She fell back against the counter. The loud ringing in her ears didn’t stop as she reached up with unsteady fingers and brushed back her hair off her stinging cheeks. The throbbing in her head erupted into nauseating ripples throughout her body. Christ, her head felt ready to burst open, but she didn’t care. “You won’t get away with this!” she yelled.
“Raise your voice again. Go on.” He narrowed his eyes and picked up a butcher's knife. “Think what I could do with this.”
“Stop it,” she whispered, frozen and trying to gauge how to handle him. So far, she’d stood up to him and it had only made him more crazed. Brandon was right; he was dangerous.
Beau waved the knife’s point in front of her face, goading her to defy him, and she held her ground, watching him, although every nerve ending in her body screamed to look away.
