Beauty and the Bad Boy

by Scarlett Dupree

  He asked her to write down what had happened to her. She drew a question mark. He asked her to write down the last thing she remembered. She wrote: ‘dancing’. And then smiled at me. He asked her to estimate how much time had passed. She thought it was probably less than an hour. He asked her to write down a number between one and ten to describe her pain. She wrote eight. He stopped asking questions then, and pressed the nurse call button. Dakota lay back against the pillows, obviously exhausted.

  When he was done, I sat down on the corner of her bed. "Well, I want to schedule some scans over the next couple of days, and I want you to be able to talk before I make a final determination, but so far, you're passing these tests with flying colors. Based on what we know now, it looks like, apart from some trauma-induced memory loss–which is not at all unusual–your brain function is normal. Again, I want to see some scans and get you talking first, but this is just about best-case scenario, Dakota."

  A nurse came in and injected something into her IV. The doctor left, and I hugged Dakota as tight as I felt I could without breaking her–which wasn't tight at all. I laid her back on her pillows, and she fell asleep almost instantly.

  She woke a few hours later. I was sleeping with my head on her bed near her side, but I came alert as soon as she moved. I smiled. "Hey, Beauty." She ran her fingers through my hair.

  The rest of the day, I just held Dakota's hand and kept watch while she moved in and out of sleep. She would wake with a start every now and then but relax when she realized I was there with her, holding her. By the late afternoon, though, she was more awake and alert. She even ate a little of the broth and Jell-O the nurse brought her, though it clearly hurt her to swallow.

  Afterwards, she picked up her pad and wrote:‘what happened to me?’

  I didn't know what to say. She was so frail. I'd almost lost her. She remembered none of it. Right now, she didn't own that awful memory. Describing what had happened to her seemed like too much horror right now. But I couldn't lie to her. So I said, "Not now, babe. You need to focus on getting well."

  Her jaw set, and her eyes lit up. She was pissed. She picked up the pad and underlined her question three times, pushing the pen right through the paper. I grinned because I was so happy to see my fiery girlfriend back. She raised her eyebrows at me, and I could read the look, ‘What the fuck's so funny, asshole?’ I straightened my face. This really was serious, but damn I was glad to have her back. "Can I get Tiffany's medical opinion first?"

  She threw the pad at me. I picked it up and handed it back to her. "You don't want to lose this. I'm sure you'll need to yell at me some more." She flipped me off, and I laughed. After a beat, she grinned back. My heart swelled.

  Luckily, Tiffany walked in at just that moment. I looked at Dakota, eyebrows raised, ‘May I?’ She waved dismissively, ‘Whatever’.

  I turned to Tiffany. "Dakota doesn't remember anything about the other night after dancing. She wants me to tell her what happened. I told her maybe we should wait until she's stronger."

  Tiffany looked at Dakota. "It's bad, D. Are you sure?" Dakota looked somber, but nodded sternly. "Okay." To me, she said, "Tell her."

  So I told her everything I knew. Tiffany filled in some details that I'd missed or hadn't known. When we were done, Dakota looked stricken. There were unshed tears in her eyes. She grabbed Tiffany's hand. Then she took up the pad and wrote:‘Don't remember I’m sorry’.

  At first I didn't quite understand. Then Tiffany started to cry, and Dakota hugged her, and I thought I did.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dakota

  Apparently, when you spend two days in a trauma-induced coma, they don't just let you go home any time you want. They made me stay in the hospital for a week after I woke up, even though the swelling had gone down quickly and, within three days of coming out of the coma, all of my tests and scans were normal. I was at my wits' end by the time I was discharged.

  I had no memory of the attack. Jake, Tiffany, and Dixon had told me everything they knew, but it felt like it had happened to someone else. I was more upset by Tiffany's story than my own. And no one knew what had happened in the truck–how I'd overtaken the guy who was hurting me or, with any detail, what he'd done to me–besides almost killing me, that is.

  I'd been told what I'd done to him, but that, too, felt like someone else. I knew he was dead, as was Tiffany's attacker, and I knew why and how. Jake had told me when we were alone. I hadn't been able to speak yet, and, when he'd finished, I'd written: ‘GOOD’.

  Jake had not, as far as I knew, left the hospital during my entire stay. When they moved me out of ICU and into a regular room, they'd brought in a sleeper chair, having by then come to understand that there was no way anyone was going to get him to recognize the concept of 'visiting hours'. He was in protective hyper-drive, and, really, I couldn't blame him.

  I lacked the memory of what had happened, but I could see every moment etched in his face. My heart ached to see his pain. He blamed himself, I knew. I had almost died; he had almost lost me, and he had been right there when it happened. He needed to tend to me, and I loved him too much to resist his ministrations. Maybe it was the traumatic brain injury, but I liked his pampering attention. For now, anyway.

  Dixon and Tiffany visited for long stretches every day and brought personal items for us both. They also took to smuggling decent food in. The Fire Birds came in twos and threes to pester me affectionately. They brought flowers every visit, and by the end of my stay, my room was a riot of color and scent.

  They finally released me the day after they took my stitches out. I was talking and walking and wore no more bandages. I had an angry, jagged, three-inch scar starting just in front of my right ear and extending back, over the top of the ear. That was from the chain. I had another, much smaller scar, just up and right of the base of my skull, from the incision they'd made to draw off the bleed in my brain.

  Each scar had a halo of bald skin–well, stubble–around it. I was trying to convince myself that these dark red seams in my head looked badass, but so far I just thought they looked scary and gross. My hair completely covered the smaller and kinda sorta covered the larger, so I'd deal.

  I also had big bruises all over my arms and torso. I had bruises in the shape of actual fingers on both arms, my throat, and one deeply bruised breast, and another large, really deep, bruise low on my abdomen, just above my pubic bone, spreading down to my inner thigh. I was glad I couldn't remember how I'd gotten them, and I was glad to see them fading.

  All things considered, though, I felt pretty good. I had some slight vertigo and some really terrible headaches. I'd started having scary, violent, upsetting dreams, and I hadn't been able to make sense of them. My thinking felt a little slower than I was used to. But I was heartily sick of being still, and even more sick of being fussed over and poked at. I wanted home, and I wanted it now. I wanted my life back. I wanted to be eternal with Jake. I wanted Jake to be… Mine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jake

  For weeks after I got her home, I stayed with Dakota. When I absolutely had to leave, I called Tiffany over. I could not stand the idea that something could happen to her and she would be alone, especially while she was still weak.

  After about a month, she'd kicked up a stink and refused to tolerate having what she called a 'babysitter' and I'd gone back to my normal routine, but even six weeks after she'd been hurt, when she seemed strong again and like my Dakota, I could not make myself relax. Ever.

  She wasn't quite as she'd been before. The headaches were gone, but she had bad dreams every night and jerked herself awake. She brushed me off when I tried to comfort her, and she wouldn't talk about them, but I was worried. To my knowledge, she'd never had nightmares before. I wondered if she was having flashbacks in her dreams. I didn't want her to have those memories back. She wouldn't bring the dreams up with her doctor, and she certainly wouldn't let me do it.

  I was surprised and a little disconcerted that
she still favored a ponytail, since the style fully exposed her scars. Although I'd always loved her hair caught back like that–the way her long rope of hair swung against her back, the image it evoked for me of wrapping it around my hand and pulling her against me–I was beginning to hate it.

  I didn't mind at all that she had scars–she could never be less than perfect to me–but when I looked at these, especially the one above her ear, all I saw was the chain, her vulnerability, and my failure to save her.

  Someone had hit her with a fucking chain and almost killed her. And I'd been right there. I hadn't been able to stop it. I didn't know how to let that go. I woke with it. I spent my day with it. I fell asleep with it.

  One morning, she dressed in yoga clothes, got her yoga bag out of the closet, and grabbed her keys. I was sitting at the island with a cup of coffee, and she came up to me and kissed me on the forehead, as if what was going on here was fucking normal. "I'll see you later, okay?" She turned to the patio door.

  I stood up and got between her and it. "Uh, Dakota, where you going, babe?"

  "I'm taking in a yoga class this morning. Scoot."

  I wasn't fooled by her perky attitude. She knew full well that I was not going to be okay with this. I leaned against the glass door. "Don't you think we should talk about this?"

  She'd been ready for that. Didn't make her any less pissed, though, I could tell. "Um, no. I absolutely don't think we should talk about this. I think you should move your ass out of my way. I crossed my arms and continued to block the door. Her eyes narrowed. "I can just go around the front, you know."

  "And I'll be at your car before you will. We need to talk."

  "Jake!" She hurled her keys at me; I caught them in one hand. She plopped on a stool at the island and glared at me. "I. Am. Going. To. Yoga. There. I've talked. Did you enjoy it as much as me?"

  I sat next to her and put my hand on her leg. She let it stay. "I know you're pissed, and I know why. And you know why I'm worried. Can we just at least talk this out?"

  She sighed. "Jake. We were at my six-week checkup yesterday. You heard them say I was cleared for all normal activity now. I can drive. I can work out." She raised her eyebrows at me. "I can fuck, which I also plan to do today, by the way. So get showered and oil. We can have our Birdy Ceremony, which we were supposed to be doing tomorrow." We had postponed the wedding until she was healed. "I can get back to my life. Please don't get in my way. I'm going insane."

  "I want you to have all those things. I want you to get back to your life. But I don't think your doctor has your kind of working out in mind when I think of normal activity. I don't think Krav Maga is normal activity."

  "It's my normal activity. Anyway, I'm not doing Krav Maga today. I'm going to yoga. Strength. Flexibility. Balance. All things I don't have as much of since I got hurt."

  "Okay. That's fair. When does Krav Maga come back into your schedule? I'm not thrilled with the idea of Mr. Shirtless kicking or throwing punches at your head, even if you're just sparring."

  "Scott is his name. Scott. You met him, remember? He sure remembers you." She was quiet for a minute, thinking. "I don't feel ready for Krav Maga yet. I need to be sure I'm completely steady on my pegs first. I will get back into it, though. I want to go for my black belt. I feel the need to keep those skills up even more now. I believe it was probably that training that saved me from getting more badly hurt. Maybe if I'd been better trained, I'd have been able to react quickly enough not to get hurt at all..."

  I squeezed her thigh. "Fuck. I'm so sorry I let you get hurt. It fucking kills me that I didn't keep you safe."

  She put her hand on mine. "Don't, Jake." She sighed. "How about this. How about I promise to let you know when I'm ready to pick it back up. I will not be asking you for permission, obviously. I will just give you a heads-up. Best deal you're getting here. You should take it."

  "Okay. It's a good deal." I handed over her keys. She kissed me firmly on the lips and headed out the door, smiling.

  I closed my eyes and willed my anxiety to fade away.

  ***

  Later that evening, we were huddled up on the couch watching television. Dakota's head was in my lap, and I was combing my fingers through her hair. At some point, I absentmindedly traced a finger along the scar over her ear. She turned to look up at me. I realized what I'd done and jerked my hand away. She took my hand and put it back, using her hand to guide me along the dark, pink trail of the scar. I felt tears pricking my eyes, and I looked up before they could fall on her.

  She sat up and straddled me. Still struggling with tears, I turned my face away. She grabbed my jaw and turned me back. "Jake. Jake, it's okay." She leaned forward and gently ran her tongue over my lips before she kissed me. I kissed her back, but I didn't deepen the kiss; in fact, I backed off slightly when she tried to. She spoke with her lips against mine, kissing me lightly every word or two. "Jake… I'm… okay… I'm here… with you..." She slid her tongue into my mouth to find mine.

  I made a sobbing groan and put my hands up to frame her face and hold her mouth to mine. My tears had fallen down my cheeks, but I let them go. I kissed her harder than I had in weeks, my tongue plunging into her mouth, rolling over her tongue. I felt her arms sliding around my neck. I dropped my hands and wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against my chest. She was moaning into my mouth.

  Abruptly, she sat back. She pulled her tank up and over her head, baring her breasts to me. She dropped it on the floor behind her. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned in to kiss my wet cheeks, then sat back again. I studied her chest. She was fully healed and bruise-free, but I gently cupped the breast that had been so badly hurt and kissed the spots I remembered had borne the fingerprints of the man who'd hurt her. I had not touched her like this since the day of the attack.

  She arched her back and pressed herself more firmly into my hand. I could feel her core on my erection, hot and wet through my jeans and the pair of my cotton boxers she was wearing. I closed my eyes for a couple of beats, then leaned down and took her breast in my mouth. She moaned and flexed her hips against me. I thrust myself against her, shivering. She pulled at my shirt, and I helped her pull it off. Then she reached down to unfasten my fly.

  I pulled back. She was looking at me with hooded eyes. "Dakota. We should take this slow."

  She finished with my fly and slid her hands in to wrap around my cock. She gave me a squeeze, and I sucked in a breath. She pulled me out of my jeans and ran her hand down my length. I tipped my head back and pushed against her hand.

  She let me go, stood up, and dropped her shorts. "No, Bad Boy," she murmured. "I don't want to take anything slow. I've been weeks without you, and I need you to fuck me right now. Hard. I need you to make me scream."

  Oh Jesus. She straddled me again. I slid my fingers between her legs, but she flinched and grabbed me by the wrist, placing my hand on her hip instead. She took my cock in her hand and pressed me against her entrance. I couldn't help myself. She felt so damn good. She was so wet and so hot. I thrusted up into her as she was sliding down on me. She closed her eyes as she landed on my hips, fully penetrated.

  Jesus. At first she was totally still, her eyes closed–long enough that I started to wonder if something was wrong. But then she started to move, moaning and bucking hard on me right away. Fuck, it was intense. I'd missed her so damn much.

  I thrusted up into her, meeting the rhythm of her bucking hips. I took her breast in my hand and brought my mouth to it to suckle her nipple. Her head fell back and she moaned loudly, grabbing my head and holding it to her, grasping handfuls of my hair.

  "Dakota, Fuck. Fuck." I needed to move more. I grabbed her ass in my hands and stood up, turned, and, without losing our connection, laid her longwise on the couch, my knees between her legs. I pushed as far into her as I could, and she clutched at me, gasping. I grabbed her outside knee and pulled up on it; she responded and wrapped her legs around me.

  This is how I liked
her best–wrapped around me, as close to me as I could get her. I was still wearing my jeans. I wanted to feel her against more of my skin, but I was not about to pull out of her now.

  I was deep inside her, not moving. I kissed her softly, moving to trail kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. She was moaning and writhing under me. "Jake, please! You feel so fucking good!"

  I watched her carefully, wanting to know exactly when things got too much for her. I didn't want to hurt her. But she wanted it hard. I pulled back and slammed into her. She cried out, "Jake!" I did it again. And again. Our rhythm took over and she was bucking up, forcing me deeper with each of my thrusts.

  Then I wasn't watching for trouble anymore; I was riding her crest of ecstasy to my own. I slid my hands under her to take hold of her ass as I pounded into her. She was crying out with every thrust. I was grunting like some kind of animal. Suddenly, I felt her nails dig deep into my back and she lifted her back and shoulders off the couch, screaming "Jake!" over and over. The feel of her spasms around me sent me over. I sat back on my heels, pulling her against my chest, and I came with one more deep thrust and a roar.

  Panting and sweaty, we held each other for a long time. Then I pulled out and shifted my legs to lie back on the couch, stretching her out on top of me. She sighed and relaxed on me, her head tucked under my chin.

  "Dakota. You okay, babe?"

  She snuggled against my chest. "You really are an evil, sex-wizard…"

  I laughed and asked, “Wizard?”

  “Don’t ask,” she replied as I wrapped my arms more tightly around her. After a while, I carried her to bed.

  Sometime in the night, Dakota started up with a gasp, and I was instantly awake and alert with her. She was sitting upright, just realizing that she'd been dreaming. I sat up and put my hand on her back. She jumped. "Dakota."