by Kendra Leigh
Today is my last chance. Tomorrow, Ethan and Angel return from their honeymoon, and I must return to my duties, to my life. My world hasn’t got room for Savannah Harper or time to be sitting outside her house for no other reason than to relieve my conscience, so after today, I’ll move on, forget about her. I’d just like to see her. Just one last time. Trace her tiny features with my fingertips, smell her hair.
Before I know it, I’m out of the car and crossing the road toward her house. I knock first, unobtrusively, hoping that the gentle approach will encourage her to open the door. As I half expect, she doesn’t answer, so I ring the bell several times, all constraint now out of the window.
“Savannah? Savannah, please. I just want five minutes to explain, then I’ll leave you alone.” Like before there’s only silence, but for some surreal reason I sense her. She’s there, behind the door, I can feel it. It’s almost like a heat radiating through the solid wood, and suddenly I ache for her. “I didn’t know. I mean I knew, but I didn’t know you didn’t—Fuck!” Where the hell do I begin with this shit? “What I’m trying to say is …” What am I trying to say? “What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry, Savannah. I’m not sorry for what happened, just for how it happened. I thought you knew why we were there. I didn’t know it was a gift. Jeez, I’m so fucking this up. Please … just open the door.” I know it must be all in my head, but it’s like I can feel her breathing on the other side of the door, hear her almost. I spread my hand wide, palm flat against the wood like I’m reaching for her. “Sparrow?”
The slightest sound emanates though the barrier between us, a gasp, a sigh, maybe even a sob, and then the smallest voice, almost unrecognizable as Savannah’s. “Please go away. My neighbor will be watching. Please don’t cause any more problems for me than you already have.”
Staggered that she’s even spoken, I’m speechless for a moment, her words processing slowly through to my brain. I remember she spoke about a nosey neighbor, and I turn to scan the windows of the houses across the street, and sure enough there’s a silhouette of someone sitting in an upstairs room of the house opposite. I look away quickly, wanting to engage Savannah in more conversation while I can, but then I hear the distant click of a door. It comes from deeper inside the house, and I know that she’s no longer there. I can’t feel her anymore.
Conscious that I’m being watched, I mask my intense disappointment with nonchalance and head back to the car. “Fuck!” I smash my fists into the steering wheel, frustration boiling my blood. This! This is why I keep to my goddamned self. Letting people in just complicates shit. What the hell was I thinking? She doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t care if I’m sorry or not. She’s moved on, forgotten our little tryst in the woods. It meant nothing.
Screwing my feelings into a ball, I toss them aside, slam the car into drive, and head back to Manhattan.
* * *
Angel’s face lights up the second she sees me, and I feel better already. My deep affection for her is intrinsic and unconditional, like that of a sister or daughter almost. Like me, she has no close family relationships to speak of, and so we’ve assumed the dependable familial roles in each other’s lives readily.
She’s down the steps of the plane and stepping into my arms immediately, her arms squeezing the breath from my lungs. “I’ve missed you.” It’s a hug I had no idea how much I needed. And one her husband, at one time, would have given me the death stare for. But not anymore.
Ethan beams at me from behind his wife, waiting his turn. “We both have.” He grips my hand when Angel steps aside and pulls me in for a man hug, his palm patting me firmly on the back.
“Welcome home, guys. You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
* * *
The Wildes’ apartment takes up the entire top floor of an exclusive apartment building in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, only a couple of floors above mine. My home, though considerably smaller, comes as part of my very substantial remuneration package, the main reason being that as Ethan’s right hand man I can be instantly available to him or Angel pretty much any time of day or night. My initial employment with Ethan began as his driver and personal security in London, but as the business grew, so too did my responsibilities.
Wilde Industries began making money in residential real estate many decades ago with Ethan’s grandfather at the helm, extending into commercial real estate, health clubs, spas, casinos, hotels, and bars further down the line. Ethan’s father took the business to the UK, where eventually he passed the reins to Ethan. The ever expanding business mushroomed over the years, and Ethan was required here in New York to take over from his father as CEO. He brought me with him. Though, primarily, my priority is the family’s personal safety, I’m also head of security across the entire organization. It’s a job that never ends in a city that never sleeps, and I love it. As the job has become my life, I guess it seems inevitable that Ethan and Angel have become my family, but moreover, it has everything to do with what we’ve been through together. The parts we’ve played to pull each other through some of the trickiest times of our lives.
By the time they’ve settled back into their apartment and they’ve regaled me with stories of their travels, washed down with several cups of coffee, Ethan, though reluctant to leave his new bride, is eager to check in on business at the office Downtown. Just as we’re about to leave, a call comes in and he leaves the great room to take it in his home office.
“So …” Angel looks at me inquisitively. “What about you? What have you been up to with your time off?”
The question catches me off guard. “Oh, nothing much. Boring myself silly with boxed sets.”
She screws her nose up. “Please tell me you’ve done more than watch television. You mentioned a visit to London, did you go?”
“Yes. A flying visit.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why, I hate the place.” Both Ethan and Angel know I now consider my home to be New York, but I’ve never spoken about London with such venom. She narrows her eyes in question, but before she can verbalize, I add, “And I did some fishing.”
“Fishing? Oh how relaxing! Where?”
Closing my eyes against the discomfort of putting my overlarge foot in my mouth, I wonder how I can wriggle my way out of this topic of conversation. Memories flood my mind instantly, the mention of fishing bringing the image of Savannah slipping under the water and the unexpected fear that raced through me when I realized she was in danger. It was the day I taught her to swim, the first time I made love to her, and the first time I became conscious that, actually, I was the one in danger. In danger of falling so hard there might never be a way back to feeling normal again.
“What is it, Jackson?”
My vision pushes through the haze of my thoughts to refocus on Angel’s face etched with worry. She’s seen right through me as I would have her. I feel my eyes glaze and it is beyond anything that I expected of myself—completely alien. I haven’t come close to shedding a tear since I was a kid. Shocked and embarrassed, I shake my head and blink it away. I’m feeling sorry for myself is all it is.
“God, ignore me, I’m f—”
“No! You are not fine. You do not get to do that. This is not a one-sided relationship and you know it.”
She’s right. I’d insist on getting to the bottom of her problems, even if I had to shake it out of her. I stare at her, willing the words to come, but they’re stuck in the depths of my throat.
“Did you meet someone? Is that what this about?” Her eyes scan my face, searching for the answer. I can’t face her, so I stand and walk over to the enormous glass wall that separates the apartment from the rest of Manhattan and look out at the stunning vista. “Jackson?”
“Yes…” I nod my head “…I met someone, Angel. But she’s not mine and she never can be. And now … now I’m completely fucking ruined.”
Chapter Twenty
Savannah
HE’S GONE.
A fresh wave of despair washes over me a
s I peek through the narrow gap in the curtains, watching the figure with a familiar gait striding up the street before climbing into a car. How I miss this man whose name I learned merely days ago. The absurdity of it is yet another blow to my moral, my psyche sneering at the hurt I feel inside, mocking me for my naivety. Panic bubbles in the pit of my stomach as the engine roars to life, taking off at speed and leaving nothing but a cloud of dust to remind me he was even here at all.
I’d wanted, so much, to open the door—if for nothing else than just to get a brief glimpse of him, prove to myself that he’s real. But I couldn’t. Drawing a line under this is the only way forward, the only way I can conceive putting one foot in front of the other to continue through my life. He said he wasn’t aware that I didn’t know it was all just a fantasy. I find that hard to believe, but even if it’s true, it doesn’t make it any easier. He knew and that’s what hurts. Actually, the knowledge makes it harder to bear, because if he thought I knew, he could have assumed that my reaction to him was as much of an act as his reaction to me. All part of the sordid game. Now he knows I’m just a sad loser who fell for a man my friend paid to have sex with me.
For the first time since Nick assaulted me in the garden, I’m glad that my face is bloated and that finger shaped bruises can be clearly seen in the pale skin on my neck. I’m glad that I’m unable to speak yet or barely able to swallow. And I’m glad that Mrs. Draper sits in the upper window opposite, spying on me. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to open the door. Just for the briefest glimpse.
Ignoring the brand-new mess Nick has made, I grab fresh water and sleeping tablets and head back to bed.
After spending the night curled up on the grave of my beloved cat, Nick had finally opened the door to allow me back in. I waited until I knew he’d left for work and then locked myself inside my bedroom with pain meds and sleeping tablets. I needed to heal and I needed to be oblivious. So as soon as I woke, I took more meds, allowing them to suck me back under to a world where my emotional and physical pain was more tolerable, and if I was lucky I got caught up in dreams where Bear and Sparrow became a possibility. Perfect, perfect dreams. Sometimes I thought I heard him shouting my name—maybe I did. Maybe today isn’t the first time he showed up on my door step.
Other times I was aware of Nick knocking quietly on my locked door, muted apologies and pleas for forgiveness disrupting my peace. I wasn’t allowed to lock the door, and I knew the very act of doing so could well have dire consequences, but something inside me had turned to stone, and where fear of those consequences would usually have me toeing the line, it now found me testing its limits.
My new defiant behavior would no doubt be baffling him. Deep down I know he suppresses fears that one day I’ll leave him. It’s the reason he likes to remind me how much I need him. He has full control over the business, the house, and all our finances, although all are legally in my name. I know that his behavior the other night, though, will have him doubting how much influence that has left over me. And rightly so. Because there is one thing very different about me this time around. Something he isn’t even remotely aware of.
Now I know what it’s like to feel something other than the terror and pain he inflicts on me. I know what it’s like to laugh and be held and feel safe and tumble helplessly into something you’ve no desire to put a stop to. I know what it’s like to live without the fear of sleeping or to sleep without the dread of waking to yet another day of not knowing the shape or smell of the monster I live with. That it was real or not is immaterial; I can still own that time with Jackson, and I can thrive on it.
I don’t need to walk through life on eggshells, afraid of what will happen to me if I don’t, because I no longer care. I cried my last tear in front of Nick when I fell asleep on Shadow’s grave. I’m done with being a victim; it’s time to become a survivor.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jackson
SPEAKING WITH ANGEL MAKES IT more real somehow. The past couple of weeks have been so surreal, my memories of them and the way I feel have been floating around in the back of my mind, where I’ve pushed them, like a dream I had or a movie I watched. Just flimsy, fragmented thoughts. Recollections of another life, another world that isn’t real. But it is. Meeting Savannah, falling for her, losing her—all real.
Angel had listened intently while I told her everything. She didn’t judge me, as I knew she wouldn’t, but a part of me wanted her to call me out on every dick move I’d made, like her calling me a complete asshole would validate the depth of pain I’m feeling. She asked me to tell her about Savannah and I did, relaying every perfect detail of her beautiful character and exquisite features. Ethan had reentered the room then, eager to leave, and she smiled at me with glistening eyes, squeezing my hand in a gesture that said she understood and was here for me any time I needed to talk. But the truth is, I don’t want to talk. I want to forget. Shove everything even further back into the recesses of my mind so that the memories become so disjointed they’re no longer recognizable as mine. Then maybe I can finally get some sleep.
The trouble is, they just won’t go away, and now, as I watch the hands of the clock approach 2:00 am, I know I’m in for another sleepless night. Savannah plagues my thoughts night and day, my mind sometimes conjuring the peaches and cream smell and taste of her so vividly it’s as if she’s lying next to me. My cock stiffens beneath the sheets as the vision of her straddled across my thighs, golden locks of hair streaming down over her shoulders and pert breasts, materializes from the darkness. She shifts forward, thighs gripping my sides as she raises enough for me to nudge at her entrance. I close my eyes for a second because it feels wrong, vulgar somehow to use the memory of her like this, but I can’t help it. In reality, I close my fist around my pulsing flesh. In the fantasy playing out before me, the moonlight streaks across the room, lighting up her pale, silken skin as she lowers on to me, her tight, warm body folding around me as she begins to move. My hands slide down her waist to her hips as they undulate beneath my touch, her warm core moving up and down over my rigidity, drawing the shameful heated desire from deep within with each and every single thrust. As the pressure builds, taking me closer to release, my eyes search the darkness for hers, needing to see her, needing to remember the longing and passion I saw reflected there when I come. But she’s gone. Frustrated, I close my eyes and search again, my fist pumping harder, faster, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t see her face. The vision of her vanishes in an instant, like a stone plummeting into a perfect reflection on still water, the tumultuous ripples shattering the image entirely.
Sweating and breathless, I sit upright and grapple for the bedside light, staring with disgust at my diminishing erection. Standing, I grab my boxers and move to the window, willing my heart rate to settle, for the panic to subside. Be careful what you wish for, Jackson. I silently bollock myself for my earlier thoughts, when I wanted to forget all about her. I have to be able to remember her face. If I don’t, I have nothing.
I pace, giving it a moment or two, moving into the sitting room and flicking on the TV for a few minutes of distraction before finally focusing again, summoning the image of Savannah’s face to mind. Fuck! It’s gone. She’s gone. Angered, I turn and grab the nearest thing—the remote for the sound system—and throw it across the room. It catches the edge of a picture frame, knocking it over. I regret it instantly, the photo being the only one I have left of my grandma. Ashamed, I move toward it and check it for damage before placing it back in its rightful place.
Suddenly, a thought occurs to me—the file, the detail on Savannah … it has her photograph in it, and I never gave it back. Without even dressing properly, I pull on a pair of jeans, grab my car keys, and hightail it down to the garage in the basement. I check the trunk first, trying to remember where I put it, the last time I saw it, but nothing. The footwell and the glove box are empty as is the back seat and the pockets in the rear of the driver and passenger seats. In a last hope I slide my hand underne
ath the passenger seat, my fingertips skimming along the edge of something. It’s here, I can feel it. Adjusting my position for better access, I tuck my hand further under and drag the object out with my fingertips. Optimism soars, just for a second or two, before plummeting, realization dawning. It is a file, but it’s not the one I expected it to be. This one is thicker, far more so. It’s Savannah’s file—the one with her sketches and stories, the one she was so reluctant to let me see. But I distinctly remember putting it into her backpack. Crap! I must have put the wrong one in. I must have given her the file with her detail; this shit just gets worse. Fuck my life!
My fingers graze the top of it in awe, like it’s some sort of long hidden treasure. This belongs to Savannah. It’s like I have a part of her, something she holds dear, something personal. I contemplate how underhanded it would be of me to open it, hating the thought of invading her privacy or betraying her trust. But then I already did that. And I’m desperate to feel close to her, to get a glimpse of something created by her hand and mind. Just a quick look.
And so I turn back the cover and begin.
At first the folder is filled with pages of cute little sketches of animals and insects accompanied by charming handwritten children’s stories, each one teaching a valuable life lesson or cleverly ingrained with fundamental values for children to learn and discover. Savannah clearly has an amazing imagination, and for the life of me I wonder why she keeps it under wraps. A talent like hers should be shared with everybody. In fact, most adults could learn a thing or two about morals from her work. Each story is tucked behind a sketch of the characters involved and enclosed inside a plastic sleeve for safe keeping and preservation. There are dozens and dozens of them.
