by Meli Raine
Too patient.
“Doctor? What doctor?”
“Stacia.”
I see red. “Did Daddy give you permission?” Now I’m just lashing out. I storm past him to find a very surprised Silas just outside the door. He’s reading a bulletin board advertisement for some band.
“Ms—”
I cut him off by flipping him the bird. He makes a sound of surprise, like he’s hurt. I don’t care. Walking out of the bar, I fling open the main doors, take a right—
And start running.
Chapter 21
I’m really not equipped for the twelve-mile run back home. I’m wearing casual leather shoes, for one thing, though they don’t have any heel at all. Also, I have on a cotton t-shirt, a jangly metal necklace made from reclaimed copper water pipes, and dressy yoga pants. I wasn’t exactly worried about looking like a fashion plate when I left the house this morning.
Clearly.
I don’t sprint. I make a sharp left-right-left and find myself parallel to the town’s main park, a lush affair that uses so much water that there is a group on the corner, picketing twenty-four seven, in an effort to “drought shame” the town. In her rare letters to me, Mom’s described this phenomenon, how the ongoing drought in California is dredging up all kinds of local social, political and economic problems.
I run right past a group of people with protest signs, and keep going until I find one of the larger side streets that will eventually take me to the main road to get home.
After a few blocks, I’m sweating.
Within two miles, I’m drenched.
By three miles, I realize I’m not alone.
Either Drew or Silas is following me. They’re both dressed in full suits. Idiots. I’ll have to have a private talk with Daddy at our meeting tomorrow and insist that if I have to have a security detail, they’ve got to dress more fashionably. Jeans and t-shirts are fine. This Men-in-Black look has got to go.
“Go away,” I call back.
“Can’t,” a man’s voice shouts. “It’s my job.”
“To stalk me?”
“To protect you.” Damn, he’s suddenly close, voice louder, spooking me.
I come to a dead halt. Whoever’s behind me slams into me. I’ve left my knees unlocked and my thighs tight and coiled, ready for impact, so he bounces off me and falls to the ground.
Whoever he is, he’s back up before I can turn around.
Drew. It’s Drew.
Of course it is.
“Fuck off, Drew,” I say, giving him the finger, and taking off at a massive sprint, running as if I’m being chased.
He keeps up with me, legs like a robot’s, face impassive. At the island, physical activity was encouraged. Every three months they held an island marathon.
Guess who won? Not just my age group. Not just the women’s division.
Overall.
Every marathon, eleven in a row.
I slow my pace and decide that nine more miles is a great workout for me. My eyes drift down to Drew’s wingtips.
Oh, this is going to be fun. My loafers can outrun those wingtips.
Three more miles and we’re on a secluded path, running along a dried out river bed, once-lush greenery turned to brown, decaying stalks.
When I ran on the island, I had a mantra that flowed through my head in beat to my pace. It went:
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I-am-do-ing-fine.
I would repeat it thousands of times as I peeled off the miles, and habit makes it consume my overwhelmed thoughts. Six miles isn’t enough to kill off the flashes of despair that begins to hit me like sucker punches.
My friends all turned against me.
My father drugged me to shut me up.
Everyone thinks I’m a whore who asked three guys to fuck her at the same time.
Drew just sat there during the video and let them hurt me.
My own mother didn’t make time to be here my first few days back.
The ache rises up beneath my collarbone, a bubble of pain that will burst and hurt, tearing through my fragile chest like napalm. I know Drew’s behind me, but he’s keeping a respectful distance between us. He must be soaked completely through that suit jacket. Serves him right.
I start to laugh at the thought but my breath chokes in the middle on a sob that is so big it feels like I’ve swallowed the planet. Like it’s a big ball lodged in my throat, something that I can’t breathe around. It’s cut off all the air and I am dying, gagging, unable to breathe or think or—
I fall, staggering off to the side, slipping between two bushes down a small little grass-covered hill. I roll on my side, then over and over, three times, until I stop. I only stop because of inertia.
And I still can’t breathe.
Drew’s above me in seconds, stripping off his suit jacket, putting it under my feet and saying my name, over and over, so soft it’s like butterflies kissing my face. He’s unbuttoning his dress shirt and bunching it up, putting it under my neck. I stare, eyes fluttering, scaring away all the beautiful little soul mates who were kissing me moments ago.
Tears form in my eyes and pool until they break, pouring down the sides of my face, dripping into my ear. I roll on my side, hip grinding into a small stone in the grass, and I pull my muscles in, becoming a tight little egg, as if I could form a shell around myself and never let the soft, vulnerable parts touch air.
Wouldn’t that be nice? Too bad it’s impossible.
“Lindsay? You hurt?” Drew’s fingers hover over me. I can tell he wants to touch me, and God help me, I want him to as well. I’m sick, aren’t I? Wanting someone so desperately who betrayed me?
I cannot let go of that thought.
I try and I try and I loop, infinitely perplexed by how something so simple can take over my mind. Easy, right? Walk away. Don’t look back. He’s an asshole and I am worth more. So much more.
Why do I miss him so much? Why do my instincts override my own self-preservation?
The sob finally breaks open, bursting like a bubble that gets too big, the surface tension stretched until it cannot hold. My body shakes, the effort to stay so curled up getting to me. I press my cheek against the palm of my hand and just break down.
I fall apart.
I die.
Not literally, but it feels like it. Too many pieces of new information. Too many expectations. Too much isolation and too much pain being so close to Drew with a thousand questions and nothing but sheer torture between us. And four years of silence.
His hand touches my shoulder, the gesture kind, and oh, Lord, please forgive me, but I turn toward it, seeking comfort. Seeking a shred of humanity in this sea of nothing but pain.
He reaches for me and sits on the ground, pulling me into his lap and soon I’m in his arms. I collapse. I thought I already had collapsed, but it turns out there’s another layer. Drew smells so good. He’s hot and sweaty and it’s a little stifling, sniffling into his chest. I don’t care. He smells like Drew. The old Drew. The Drew I knew a lifetime ago. The man I loved with every fiber of my being until he turned into someone I didn’t recognize.
Someone who didn’t protect me.
His fingers caress my back, right where my ponytail rests between my shoulder blades. He’s whispering low, soft sounds that are meant to give me comfort. I take it all in, my sweat-soaked shirt pressing against his ribs, my bare calves scratching against the wool of his suit pants. He’s warm and has arms like walls, tight and muscled, a fortress where I can finally, desperately find sanctuary and safety.
“It’s okay, Lindsay,” I realize he’s murmuring. “It’s okay.”
It’s not. It’s really, really, not okay. In fact, right now my entire life is the opposite of okay. But his crooning is so sweet, so needed right now, that I let him say all these words that I know aren’t true just so I can spend a few more minutes in his arms.
My mouth betrays me.
“It’s not oka
y. It’s never been okay,” I mutter into his white, cotton shirt.
He stiffens, muscles going tense. Drew’s sigh feels like an admission of guilt. “I know. I—I just don’t know what to say to make this all better for you. I hate seeing you like this. I hate knowing you’re coming back to all the bullshit and you don’t know anything about what you’re in for.”
I sniffle. That’s a lot to take in. My fingers clutch the sweaty fabric of his shirt and I stay still, hoping he’ll say more.
He doesn’t.
If I close my eyes and just listen to his heart beating double time, with my ear pressed against his chest, can I make the world go away? Can I hold time in check like this? What if we had a pause button? A big old red button you could push when life turned into a giant tornado of pain.
Pause until it all ended, and then resume life.
Drew pulls back. A light breeze passes between our separated bodies. My knees burn and I look down, seeing raw skin, red blood filling in like a kid with a red marker and a paint-by-numbers kit. I let go of his shirt and look up at him, a wave of self-consciousness hitting me. This is the part where I look into his eyes and see pity. The part where he’s just doing his job. Comfort the client. Make sure she’s not hurt. Do your job exactly right so you get paid.
That’s how this works, right?
Except, when I look at him, it’s like finding out there are eyes made of nothing but love.
“Everything I thought about coming home is wrong,” I say, staring back with eyes that feel like hollow craters. If only his eyes could fill mine. “I thought I’d come home and pick up my life. It might be a new life, but it would be a life. Away from the drugs and the mandatory group therapy and individual therapy and art therapy and—fuck all that therapy!”
One corner of his mouth twitches as I say this, his head tipping to one side, his eyes more compassionate than I ever remember. I spent years hating him. Years.
And all those years, wishing he still loved me.
“And then here you are,” I continue, my voice cracking with emotion. I have imagined this moment thousands of times. This is my chance. I get to hit him. Punch him, Kick him in the balls and scream and scratch and claw and get my revenge.
But suddenly, I’m kissing him.
How in the hell did that happen?
His white cotton t-shirt is hot and damp, my hands clenching the fabric, palms riding up his arms, enjoying the feel of his wide, broad back, rippling with muscle under my touch. He tastes like coffee and sweetness, like a welcoming party and a roaring fire in winter. Like a past that we never got a chance to share, and a future I ache to have.
“Lindsay,” he whispers between kisses, then presses me hard against him, his tongue more demanding, parting my lips with an eagerness that betrays his cool, controlled exterior. His hands are in my hair, one cupping my cheek, and with our mouths we say so much.
Without uttering a single word.
I’m transported to a place where I’m wanted. Needed. Craved and treasured, even if it’s just for a few fleeting seconds in Drew’s arms. This is so familiar. This is so foreign. I feel both at the same time, suspended between two worlds.
And then I wrench myself away, reeling from the dissonance. What am I doing? Panting hard, my breath forced out of me like an exorcism, I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and stare at him like this is all a figment of my imagination.
“C’mere,” he says, pulling me dangerously closer. Dangerous because I can feel his breath on me. I want to feel his breath on me. The more I feel his heat, the closer his mouth is to mine. I want to kiss him again. I want it so, so much.
But I can’t.
“No,” I say, the longing in my voice so obvious I can’t even fool myself.
“No? Why not?”
“I can’t kiss you like that again, because I hate you.”
Chapter 22
“I don’t think you really hate me, Lindsay,” he says softly, his thumb grazing my lower lip, his eyes smoky and troubled. When he talks to me like that, I unravel inside.
I want to unravel like this, become a long line of ribbon I can wrap around him, tight, and never, ever let go.
Which means I can’t. I have to stop this, now, before I lose myself completely.
“You don’t know anything about me, Drew. Quit trying to make assumptions when you have no idea. No idea.” The burn of his mouth lingers on mine. I can taste him, that unique flavor that I just recall as Drew when I give myself permission to revel in memory. I keep watching his mouth, as if by looking at it I can learn something.
It just makes me want to kiss him again.
I can’t kiss him again.
If I do, I’ll lose myself in him. That kind of self-hatred would be the final, ultimate betrayal in my life.
When you betray yourself, there’s really only one resolution.
And that’s suicide.
Given that I’m not interested in offing myself, that means I don’t even have a choice right now.
I have to get away from him. Stop looking at those hot, full lips. Stop thinking about how his tongue tasted moments ago. Stop thinking about his hands on my back, one sinking into my hair. Stop thinking about how he pulled me closer, as if he really wanted me.
Fantasy.
It’s all a stupid fantasy. A damn determined one, though. I can’t seem to let it go.
Standing fast, I move away from his touch. It feels like a kind of death. Drew’s faster, though, and before I realize it, he’s holding my elbows, making me look at him.
The backs of my knees tingle when I look into those eyes. Real emotion fills them, overflowing into his expression. It’s like he really cares.
I’m inventing that, right? In group therapy sessions at the island I was told that one of the most dangerous moments back home is when you project emotions onto other people. Wishing someone felt a certain way didn’t make it true.
Oh, how I wish what I see in Drew’s face were real.
The ache rises in me, a steady sorrow that comes with a sigh.
“Lindsay,” he says, tilting his head just so. Heat radiates off him in waves, and not because we’ve been running. I hear footsteps coming fast. Drew’s glance darts toward the sound.
“Silas,” he mutters to himself, eyes flashing as he pulls me closer with urgency. “Listen. I can’t say this twice. Nothing you think you know is true. Nothing.” His tone is vicious, a startling change from a moment ago. “Remember that, no matter what happens.”
Dark hair, a black suit, and a man racing toward us is all I see as Silas appears, barely huffing from exertion. By the time he comes between the bushes Drew’s a respectable distance from me. No one observing us now would have any clue we were just kissing a minute ago.
No one could guess.
“Ms. Bosworth,” Silas says, one eye twitching as he looks me over. “Your knees.” He gives Drew a sharp look. “You didn’t call for backup?” He looks around the park, eyes like an eagle’s.
“She tripped. No attacker.”
Silas’ shoulders drop. How cute. He’s still naive enough to care. “Good. You need medical attention?” He looks at me again. I think this is the most I’ve ever heard him speak.
“I’m fine.”
Drew jerks his thumb toward me and leans in to Silas. “She’s always fine.”
Silas doesn’t react. Good man. Stay stone-faced. That’s how Daddy’s security detail always works. They’re statues.
Statues with lightning-fast reflexes and guns.
All the emotion from minutes ago needs to go somewhere. It’s still there. In me—my heart, my mind, my gut, my everywhere. Just because Silas appeared and Drew and I have to play fakey-fake doesn’t mean the feelings left. Oh, no. If only life were that simple.
Instead, they lurk. Like guerillas engaged in an undeclared war, all my feelings—desire, love, need, want, arousal, intrigue, self-righteousness, indignation, you name it—they crouch behind whatever item they can to
find sanctuary. Finding safety from the wretched real world isn’t easy.
In fact, it’s so hard you’ll drive yourself insane trying.
Silas offers me a hand and pulls me up, Drew’s eyes on him the entire time, locked on our grasping hands. Too bad, buddy. Don’t like me touching another man?
I’m not yours, Drew.
For a brief second, those words scream so loudly in my head I’m afraid I said them aloud. Drew’s talking into his phone and Silas scans the horizon. No. Whew. I didn’t say them.
Which is good, because I’m already in big trouble as it is.
Silas lets go of my hand and gives me a quick nod, as if to say I’m all good. An unmarked black car appears behind a row of bushes, high up on the hill that overlooks the path. Silas spots it just as I do, and his face softens with recognition.
Guess I’m not running the rest of the way home.
I lurch forward, toward the long, tall set of stairs leading up to the parking lot, and come to a fast halt. My knees are toast. Suppressing a groan, I take another step. Drew and Silas bookend me instantly, hands on my elbows, supporting me.
“I got her,” Drew says to Silas, his voice a snap, like the jaws of a large predator closing.
I lean away from him and pretend to fall toward Silas, who catches me beautifully, without pretense, seeking only to help.
Drew’s eyes narrow and he gives me a sharp look, then frowns at Silas, who doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t think you’re fine, Ms. Bosworth,” Silas declares, looking at my ragged knees with concern.
I catch Drew’s eyes and tip my chin up, defiant.
“Gentian may have a point,” Drew says evenly, eyes narrowing.
I let Silas brace me with an arm around my shoulder and let my weight fall on him, requiring more contact. Drew’s jaw tightens.
“Thank you,” I say softly to Silas, looking at Drew the entire time. “I really appreciate your help. I’m more injured than I realized.”
Drew snorts.
Silas’s eyebrows draw down. “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe we do need to get her to a doctor, Drew.”
“What Lindsay needs is to be put to bed and given lots of attention,” Drew answers, not looking at me. I feel Silas pause, trying to decide how to read that whopper of a comment. I steel myself on the inside, pushing aside the racing arousal that comment triggers, and give myself a bit of distance from Silas.
