Rafe

by Jo Raven

  I try to explain that I’m tired, so very fucking tired, but they bundle me up on a stretcher and lift me into the ambulance, talking of kidney and liver bruising, broken ribs too close to the aorta of the heart, and possible concussion.

  Whatever. It’s not that. I lived with the pain of surviving for years. Promised to find the killer and take revenge on my family. And I have. If death is revenge. What is revenge, anyway, and what’s its use?

  Thoughts surface and sink again, change shapes like clouds. Wrapping my head around all that happened today is impossible. Mind-bending.

  Can’t believe I can stop running, agonizing, throwing punches in all directions. Don’t know a different life. Can’t remember it. I’ve lived on pain and bitterness and sorrow. Scraped by. Trained for a chance to fight the killer. Fight the memory of their death.

  But you can’t fight memories. You can’t outrun ghosts. Can’t outlive them. Can’t stop loving them. All you can do is let go of the anger and the fear.

  Meg told me so. She tried to remind me there’s more to life than pain and anger. Said I should let go.

  So I’m letting go. Releasing the rope and letting myself fall. The tension has snapped, and my body is shutting down, trying to make up for years of tension, stress, unrelenting guilt, and sleepless nights.

  That’s what’s happening.

  They want to run tests. Keep me in for observation. What the fuck ever. They aren’t too concerned, though. I guess I’ll live, after all. And I’m glad.

  Only one thing bothers me.

  “Meg?” I rasp, when the paramedic asks what I need. “Where’s Meg?”

  But I get no answer, dammit. I’m drifting back into sleep, my limbs heavy, a jackhammer pounding inside my skull, when the hairs on my arms lift and a shiver wracks me.

  “Meg,” I whisper.

  The doors of the ambulance close with a slam, and she’s there, coming to sit by my side. She takes my hand, her dark eyes earnest and so damn beautiful.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she says, as we roll away.

  I try to squeeze her hand, show her I’m listening. Because she’s staying like she said she would, giving me a second chance.

  Can’t ask for more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Megan

  The police followed us here and interrogated everyone involved. I told them all about Carson and Mom, how he beat her, how she lost the baby. Afterward, I find myself sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs lining the waiting room with Tessa’s and Erin’s arms around me, my cheeks wet. Didn’t even realize I was crying. For Mom. For the baby. For myself.

  And for Rafe, who’s still inside with the doctors.

  They said they fear a concussion. Apart from that, he has three broken ribs and some kidney bruising, but other than pissing blood for a few days, he should be okay.

  But they’re worried because he’s still not fully awake. And I’m worried, too.

  I heard Zane’s statement to the police about this Nino Gaspari, about how Rafe found out he was his family’s killer. About Rafe confronting him. About debt collectors executing Nino.

  Rafe said he was tired. Fighting in a cage, facing the killer, having him shot before his eyes, and then almost dying himself when trying to save me. A lot to deal with. Too much to take in. Could this be why he’s not waking?

  The guys are there, only Asher missing. Audrey had the baby, Tyler tells me, and Asher is with her, but if Rafe doesn’t wake up soon, he’ll come over, too.

  “The baby’s a boy,” Tessa says, giving me a suspicious look, tucking a strand of blue hair behind her ear. “You knew all along,” she mutters. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. It was a lucky guess.”

  And I’m in no mood to chat about Audrey’s baby right now. All I can think of is that I need Rafe to be all right. I’d give anything, do anything to make sure he’ll wake up and smile that beautiful smile again. Whenever I remember how he burst running into that alley where Carson kept me at gunpoint, how he ran in front of the bullets to get to me…

  Yeah, I’d do anything for him. He has my heart. Had it, in fact, from the start.

  Tyler is talking in quiet tones with Dylan at the back of the waiting room. Ocean and Micah, the two tattoo artists of Damage Control apart from Zane, are sitting a few seats away, silent and stony-faced. The apprentices, Seth, Shane and Jesse, are lounging by the door to the examination room, together with Zane.

  Dakota is gone to look for coffee. Not sure why. Although it’s way past midnight, everyone’s buzzing with nervous energy.

  Zane suddenly straightens and steps inside the examination room. Everyone immediately gravitates in that direction and I jump to my feet just as a doctor appears at the door, brows lifting when he finds himself surrounded.

  “How is he?” Zane asks, and everyone crowds around him, to listen, though they let me through when I press between them to get closer.

  “Like I told you earlier,” the doctor says, clutching a file to his chest, “he’s not in danger. We have administered painkillers and fluids, as he appears to be dehydrated. He seems to be sleeping. Has he had problems sleeping lately?”

  “He did,” I say. “Said he couldn’t sleep.”

  “We have helped him up, made him walk and talk, did some tests. It’s possible he just needs rest.”

  A collective sigh goes through the room.

  “Can we see him?” Dylan asks. “Is he conscious now, then?”

  “Not yet.” The doctor moves backward, blocking the open door. “Dr. Mendoza is still with him.”

  Tessa tries to see past the doctor into the room. “When can we talk to him?”

  “I’m calling Ash,” Tyler mutters and wanders away, his cell in his hand.

  The doctor takes another step back and I know he’s about to close the door to Rafe’s room. Lifting my chin, I prepare to ask, beg if I have to, for him to let me inside. I promised Rafe I wouldn’t leave, swore I wouldn’t move from his side, and I haven’t seen him since he was wheeled out of the ambulance, hours ago.

  “Is one of you Meg, by any chance?” The doctor pauses, his hand on the door handle. “He has hardly spoken three words the whole time he’s been here, and one of those was Meg.”

  “I’m Meg.” I smooth down my blouse, nervous. “Can I see him?”

  He hesitates, his hazel eyes giving me a quick once-over. He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, you can come in.”

  As I slip through the door, I hear the others asking more questions, the doctor quietly answering, and then the door closes.

  Quiet.

  A lady in blue scrubs is writing something down on a board. She seems startled to see me, her brows lifting.

  “I’m Meg,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Here to see Rafe.”

  “So you’re Meg.” She smiles, a weary smile, and glances toward the other end of the room. “He just asked for you again. Better go talk to him.”

  “How…?” My voice breaks, and I swallow. “Sorry. How is he? Like, really?”

  “He’s more alert than he was an hour ago. He’s spending the night here, but hopefully by tomorrow he’ll be well enough to go home.”

  I bite my lip and nod, my heart hammering. My hair has escaped my ponytail and hangs in my face. Impatiently I push it back.

  Gathering my wits, I turn toward the bed, take the few steps separating us, and freeze.

  It’s a shock to my system, seeing him like that. A needle is taped to his arm, an IV line snaking up to the twin bags hanging from a metal stand. His jaw is swollen, bruised a deep purple, one eye almost shut. The ink on his broad chest can’t hide the deep bruising.

  Oh dear God, his side is black and blue. Really black and blue, like storm clouds, and I…

  I’m still staring as the realization of how close he came again to dying seeps in. Guess he’s not the only one who has to deal with all that happened tonight.

  A pristine white sheet is pulled up to his waist. His hands
lie on top of it, wrapped in bandages, blood spotting them. His face is relaxed. Not sure I’ve ever seen it so peaceful before. Even after making love, when he passed out in my arms, tension had lingered in the lines creasing his forehead and the tightening of his mouth.

  Talking of tension… His hands twitch on the sheet, his breathing speeds up. His brows knit.

  “Meg,” he whispers. “Meg.”

  That breaks me from my paralysis. I sit on the bed and place my hand over his. His skin is cold. Why are hospitals always so cold?

  “It’s me,” I say. “I’m here.”

  His hand stills beneath mine, and his breathing stutters. His long lashes lift, until he’s looking right at me. Not a word leaves his lips. He just gazes at me, slowly blinking, his golden eyes glimmering.

  My heart stops, then restarts with a boom. What’s this? I thought I knew what love was, but this is so much more, so much stronger. I want to spend my life with this man, have his children, follow him to the end of the world.

  Shit.

  “Stay,” I whisper into the silence and bend to brush my mouth over his. “Don’t leave.”

  The same he’s asked of me.

  His mouth tightens, and he looks away. His bruised face is hard to read, but when I shift to get a better look at his eyes, I see they’re wet.

  The doctor, whose presence I forgot about, clears her throat and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

  I place a hand on his uninjured cheek, not knowing what to do. Asking him if he’s okay would be stupid. A single tear spills over, wetting my fingers.

  And then he opens his arms, draws me in tight until I curl by his side, my head resting on his shoulder. I melt in his embrace, rest my hand on his chest to feel his heart beat, strong and steady.

  “We’ll figure this out,” he whispers, the same words I spoke to him days ago. “Together.”

  ***

  “I thought you hated cooking,” Rafe says from the kitchen door, almost giving me a heart attack.

  “You’re up.” I spin around to face him. “Good morning.”

  My throat closes. It’s so good to see him awake and lucid.

  He’s standing stiffly, a hand braced on the door frame. His face’s haggard, covered in golden stubble, his jaw still swollen and bruised. It’s been two days since he was released from the hospital, and he spent most of that time sleeping, only waking to piss. Even then I hovered by his side, unsure of his balance.

  Two days during which he battled nightmares and thrashed on the bed, woken by the pain in his ribs, only to be drawn down again. The doctors said they wouldn’t give him sleeping pills, due to his history with drugs, only painkillers, but his body and his mind have been pushed so far beyond the limits of their endurance, they’ve taken care of that.

  He staggers into the kitchen and pulls a chair. He sinks in it gingerly, his arm automatically going around his ribs. “Smells good.”

  “It’s a, uh, family recipe.” I cast a dubious look at the ingredients I’ve been mixing in the bowl. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  His appetite is returning. That’s great news. He hasn’t eaten anything apart from two crackers last night. But…

  “Not sure if this will be edible.” I press my lips together, shift from foot to foot. “Never tried this recipe before.”

  “What is it?” He places his bandaged hands on the table, and it’s hard to look away from them. From the bruises on his face, his cut lip, the evidence of how hurt he was. “Meg?”

  “Oh sorry.” I quickly look away. “It’s a Greek recipe. Apparently my douchebag of a dad, the restaurant owner, left me a hand-written notebook with recipes from his mother. I’ve tried cooking a few in the past, and this one looked…intriguing.” I push the spoon into the mixture, stir it absently. “Fried zucchini balls.”

  “Sounds good.” His stomach actually growls, and I laugh. I glance at him over my shoulder, and find a faint smile playing on his lips.

  “Fried zucchini balls it is, then.” I wave my spoon in the air. “See, I’m Greek, and black, and even have some Spanish blood in me, if rumors are to be trusted. I belong nowhere.”

  “You belong here, with me,” he whispers, and I turn around, lean back on the counter. I’d rush and hug him on the spot if I wasn’t covered in grated zucchini and flour. “Plus,” he continues, “I know exactly where my parents were from. My dad’s family is Sicilian. My mom’s German. What good did it do? What does blood matter?”

  Seen that way... “German, huh? That why you’re so blond?”

  “I don’t look like a Sicilian mobster’s son, do I?” The bitterness in his voice cuts like a knife. “You can’t see the tainted blood, not on the surface.”

  I walk around the table, behind him, and give his shoulder a light squeeze. “There’s no taint in you, Rafe. You’re the best person I know.”

  He reaches up, wraps an arm around my waist. “Thank you.”

  Not shooting me down outright, not saying I don’t know him, that he’s bad news. I smile, knowing he can’t see it, but this is progress.

  I’ll put your broken pieces back together, Rafe Vestri, just you wait and see.

  His blond hair curls at his neck, soft and silky. I itch to touch it. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I still.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Maybe because you were held at gunpoint by a madman? Because you almost died?”

  He’s right. I should be a wreck. My worst fears confirmed. Carson did come after me and put a gun to my head. Strange, come to think of it, how I now feel better than ever.

  “For years,” I whisper, “since I can remember, I’ve felt guilty. Felt I wasn’t taking good care of my mom. Every time a boyfriend beat her up, every time I had to call the doctor to patch her up, every time I found her passed out drunk… I was sure I wasn’t worthy of her love. But now…”

  I give in to the urge and stroke his hair. Soft like down feathers. I want to tell him about the baby but I can’t, not yet. “Now I don’t feel so guilty anymore. Mom gave my address to the man who kicked her until she almost bled to death. She gave me up. She chose to be with men like Carson. Chose to lead the life she does, and I’m not her caretaker. Never was. She was the one who was supposed to look after me, and I…” I swallow hard, a lump in my throat. “I decided to forgive myself.”

  He makes a small noise, like a hiccup, and turns in his chair. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me for a long, long time.

  And later, after I have fried the zucchini balls and we have eaten, after I prepare coffee and we sit in the living room to drink it, the kitty jumping in a ray of sunshine cutting through the window, he takes my hand in his.

  “Move in with me, Meg. I want you with me every day and every night. Bring the kitty, too.” His eyes are solemn, pools of gold. “Please, move in with me?”

  Of course, I say yes.

  ***

  It’s on Sunday morning, a week after Rafe was released from the hospital, that Dakota drops by to take his drums for repair. I found them slashed, and when asked about it, he admitted he’d done it that same night he stepped in front of a car and almost ended it all.

  If I’d known he was in such a dark place that day… My chest hurts just thinking about it.

  “So you moved in?” Dakota asks, her blue eyes wide as she enters the living room of Rafe’s apartment and sees my boxes by the sofa and Raf the Amazing Kitten curled on a cushion.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “Rafe asked me to, two days after we returned from the hospital.”

  I didn’t have that much to pack. Just my clothes, shoes, a few books, and Raf. I wonder what happened to Raylin, and vow to do a search for her online as soon as things settle down, even if just to find a way to contact her and let he know what a bitch she is for leaving without an explanation.

  “That’s awesome! I’m so glad you and Rafe
are together.” Dakota beams at me. “I mean, you’re happy, right?”

  “Of course I am!” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Crap.”

  She frowns. “Why are we whispering?”

  “Rafe’s sleeping.”

  “Oops, sorry,” Dakota whispers. “How is he doing?”

  “Much better. Hey, want a coffee?” I tug her toward the kitchen when she nods and seat her at the table as I set the coffee machine. “The painkillers they gave him for his ribs are pretty strong and knock him out. Then again, he needs the sleep, so…” I shrug. Rafe said he’ll stop the painkillers today. He’s too scared to get addicted again. “He hasn’t been to work or college. Hasn’t been out of the apartment, really.”

  “But…” She blinks at me. “But he’s better?”

  “I think so. He looks more rested.”

  “And his balance? All that crap the docs were worried about?”

  “He’s fine. Probably wasn’t a concussion after all.” I smile as I pour two mugs of coffee. “Milk?” I ask.

  “No. Just some sugar, if you got any.”

  I add the sugar, sit across from her and slide her mug over. “Here you go.”

  She blows on her coffee. Her nose ring glints. “Have you been to see Ash and Audrey’s baby? He’s frigging cute.”

  “Not yet.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Because of Rafe, or because for some reason you don’t want to share you’re scared to go?”

  I choke on my coffee. “Shit. You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  She sighs. “Sorry. I know it’s none of my business. I’m just curious.”

  “It’s sort of a long story.”

  “Have you ever heard of summarizing?” She winces. “Sorry. I’m in a mood today.”

  “No worries.” Can I summarize my pain and guilt and regrets, compress it into a sentence or two? “My mom was pregnant. That was over a year ago. I’ve always wished for a brother or sister. See, we moved around a lot, Mom changed boyfriends like panties, and I never had anyone to play with, talk to, share my thoughts with.” I stare into my mug, draw a long breath. “Mom’s boyfriends were always assholes, but this last one… He’s a piece of work. He kicked Mom, beat her, until she started to bleed. She was already in her seventh month. There was so much blood.”