by Ginger Scott
It’s that part that gets me—Emma’s heart beating fast. I’d give anything to be the man who gets to protect that heart. I want to hold it in my hands. And the fact that she trusts me—that’s the first time I’ve felt like maybe I deserve to hold it.
I deserve her.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I slide the towel out of the way but keep my eyes trained on her head, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks and neck. I don’t dare look any further.
Reaching down with one hand, I pour a generous amount of shampoo into one hand and hold it up for her to see. There can’t be any surprises.
She nods slowly, so I move my hand over her head, lathering her hair and letting the soap run down her body. I want to look at her injuries, but nothing else.
“Where are you hurt?” I ask, my jaw tight with the question. What I really want to ask is where did that asshole hurt you?
Her eyes glance down at herself, holding her arms out slowly until she raises her hands up one at a time in front of her face and between us. Her eyes are trained on her fingers at first, but then her focus changes to my eyes.
“I. Hurt. Everywhere.”
My breath falls short and my stomach twists tightly as she breathes out the same words I spoke to her.
Her bruises—those are small and will fade quickly. But the marks we can’t see—the invisible things Graham left behind—those are things that are hurting her right now.
“Emma…” I say, moving my hands from her hair to her fingers, clutching them and bringing them forward to me until I rest them on my chest. Her body is soaking, and the water is trailing down her arms and soaking my shirt. I don’t care in the least.
“I’m so sorry, Emma,” I say. I know they seem like empty words, but they’re all I’ve got, and for me, they aren’t empty. They’re so full she has no idea—so full of love and care and a need to protect this girl.
“I know,” she says, her lashes falling with the dew from the shower spray.
I hold her hands there and just watch her with her eyes closed. I let her stand still, because I think she needs this more than she needs anything else. I let the water wash the rest of the soap from her hair, and when enough time has passed, I turn off the spray and pull the towel down from the top of the shower to wrap it around her body.
I guide her with the same care as before out of the shower, and when I’m certain she can stand all right on her own, I pull the shirt into my hands and bunch it up to slip it over her head. She lets me, and I work it down her body until the towel falls and she pushes her hands through the arms. She hugs herself in it, and somehow it gives me peace to see her do this with something of mine.
She’s staring at me now, which I guess is better than staring into nothingness. I only wish I knew what was going on in her head—I hope she knows I didn’t look while she was naked, that I kept my promise.
I tug open my sink drawer and pull out the small brush inside. I hold it up for her, then move to pass it through her hair slowly. I’m careful with the tangles, and I don’t comb any longer than I think I need to. I don’t want to hurt her, and I can see the purple on her cheek—I know her head has to hurt.
I’ve had a bruise just like that. Someone hit me to give it to me.
With her hair brushed and her body cleaned, I take her hand and walk with her back to my room, closing the door when she steps inside. I pull back my blankets and tear away the top one, laying it on the floor.
“You’re not sleeping up here?” she chokes out her question, and her body is shivering. I pause, looking at the thin blanket on the floor. I know it will be miserable, but I also know that tonight is not the night to be taking advantage of anyone.
“You can have my bed,” I explain.
“You’re leaving me alone?” she asks, her voice growing more panicked.
“I’ll be right here. I’ll even sit with my back against the bed until you fall asleep,” I say, patting the place where I intend to sit. She nods slowly, then lowers herself to my bed. I pull the remaining blankets up over her, and she wraps her arms around them just as she did my shirt. My heart rushes again.
“I’m going to turn the light off. Unless…unless you need it,” I say.
She looks over at the switch, her mouth perched open for a few seconds, considering. “Is there…maybe…some other light? Not so bright?”
My eyes squint while I think, and I turn to my desk, to my laptop, which I plug in so the battery doesn’t die and flip open to my streaming videos, leaving it on mute so the only thing left behind is a small, blue hue cast about my room. I flip the switch and look to her.
“Is this enough?” I ask.
She nods, then pulls the blankets up tight to her chin.
I know she isn’t going to sleep, so I pull my phone into my lap as I nestle next to the bed on the floor, prepared to read until morning if I have to. I won’t leave her side.
I open up my reading app and scroll to the book I started a few months ago, before the semester started, and before I knew Emma was here. It’s an overly complicated sci-fi fantasy with so many characters that I have to scroll back to the beginning to remind myself what the hell is happening. I’m not sure why I bother, because my eyes are just reading words—I’m retaining nothing.
Several minutes pass, and the bed behind me is still silent. I know she isn’t sleeping though. I know, because I wouldn’t sleep either. I didn’t—for weeks—the first time someone jumped me at Lake Crest. I’d shut my eyes for quick rests, but my body never fell away completely. I was quick to wake at the smallest sound.
That’s where Emma is now.
“Emma?” I whisper finally, just wanting to reassure her that I’m here.
A few seconds pass, and I think maybe I’m wrong, maybe she’s asleep after all. Then I feel her weight shift on the bed, and soon her breath at the side of my face, her body so close to mine.
“I trust you, Andrew,” she breathes. I don’t look at her, her eyes are so near, her mouth…so near. I shut my eyes to avoid any temptation.
“Thank you, Emma. I’m sorry you can’t trust others…I…I shouldn’t say that. I’m just…God, I’m so sorry…” I ramble.
“I trust you,” she says again. “Please…please come up here. Please hold me.”
My lip quivers with this situation I’m in. My arms twitch to hold her, my instincts taking over and wanting to be the man she needs. But this isn’t how I wanted to hold Emma Burke at all—this isn’t the reason.
But it’s what she needs. So I crawl up into the bed, lifting the cover, and I pull her into me, my breath exhaling in time with hers as I feel so much of what she’s suffering from escape, if only for this moment.
“I’ve got you, Emma,” I say, my lips falling to her head. I sweep her hair behind her ear and kiss her head again, this time letting my lips stay there while I speak. “I’ve got you, and I won’t let go. I won’t let go now, okay?”
She nods one more time, and even though she never fully falls asleep, she lets her body rest. And I know what a triumph that is.
* * *
Emma – Earlier that Evening
It’s not like me to be afraid to talk. At least…not in small groups like this. That’s one of the things Miranda likes about me—I speak my mind.
But there was a vibe at the table throughout our dinner. I felt it all night. Something’s been…off. Miranda and Graham have traded snarky remarks, and from the small bits I have deciphered, I get the sense that she really doesn’t approve of many of his choices, and that there’s also a bit of resentment that runs rampant throughout their household. She’s mentioned more than once that he shouldn’t work so hard to take after his father, and there’s a tone when she says that.
When the conversation veered toward Tech Med programs, Graham was completely cut out of the conversation, and that’s when he started ordering drinks.
He’s rowdy now, and I can feel my cheeks burning while he stands on the corner of Washburne an
d Racine shouting at cars that drive by, asking if anyone’s an Uber Cab, his body teetering out into the roadway every so often, causing cars to honk. His mother left with the other deans and a man that seemed to be more than a friend, but clearly not her husband. She and Graham didn’t bother to say goodbye to each other, and I can still feel the ice.
“I’ll just call a cab,” I say for the tenth time. He isn’t listening to me.
Somehow, an actual cab drives by and responds to his waving. He grabs my hand firmly, the first time he’s touched me all night, and his fingers feel rough and sweaty. I slide into the back seat next to him, and he lets go of my hand. I reach forward and touch his arm, trying to get his attention. I want to go home. But he ignores me, leaning forward, relaxing both arms over the front seat and talking to the driver.
When he sits back to rest next to me, he tugs his tie loose from his shirt, his right hand nervously tapping on his leg. He glances at me and does a double take. I think maybe my nervous look registers with him.
“Hey, I just wanted to stop by this place. A few of the guys invited us. We won’t stay long. That okay?” He’s asking, but not really. I nod and smile, and he leaves his glare on me a little longer than comfortable.
“So how well do you know that Andrew guy?” he asks. My guard goes up, and inside, I start to rewind everything I said tonight. Andrew has been the only thing on my mind—his letters, what he whispered when I left my apartment, the last week I’ve experienced with him. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively to see if Lindsey’s texted me about their talk, but so far she hasn’t. I’m pretty sure I haven’t said anything about him aloud.
“I don’t know. That’s hard to say. I mean, we were friends in high school,” I say, my answer purposely vague, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to divulge. Graham keeps his stare on me, the same look as before—it makes me shiver. His lip quirks up on one side, and he pulls a cigarette from a silver case he slides out of his back pocket.
I watch him light it, then glance to the windows around us, all of them up. I roll mine down for the sheer need of fresh air. The driver does the same.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say. I work hard to keep my face from souring. I get the sense Graham has had his fill of disapproval for tonight—I think maybe that’s what his brashness is about.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a second or two, letting it swirl out around his teeth, rushing around his beard and filling most of the cab. That beard seemed so sexy when I first saw it, but now…I don’t know.
“You know he has a record?” Graham asks me, his eyes back on mine, studying me and watching carefully for me to give something more away. I shrug and look out the window, wishing I were headed home rather than somewhere deep into the city.
“I heard something about that. He was a kid, though, so that stuff doesn’t stay on your permanent record or anything,” I say, still averting my eyes. I can feel him looking at me, and several seconds pass before he reacts to my response.
“Guess so. But shit like that still gets out…” he trails off.
I shut my eyes, but keep my face toward the window, not indulging him any more in this topic. I’m saved when the cab pulls abruptly next to some club named Primal. There’s a line out the door, and the light strobing from the open doorways makes me dizzy. I dig my heels in as we step from the car, not wanting to go inside, but Graham simply tugs my arm a little harder.
My head rattles with the thumping of the music, and it takes us several minutes to slide through the packed bodies grinding along the main floor. We finally make it to a small tabletop against the wall in the back where two guys raise their hands and bump fists with Graham, half hugging him as he steps up close enough. They eye me over his shoulder, and the one closest to me smiles.
“I’m Brody,” he says, reaching out his hand. “I sort of met you a couple weeks ago. I went with Graham to that dinner for his mom.”
He looks familiar, and I’m honestly just thankful that he’s kind. It’s going to make however long I have to be here bearable.
“Nice to see you again. Emma,” I shout into his ear. He nods and gives me a thumbs up, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear a word I said.
“Whatcha drinking?” he asks.
“Water’s fine,” I say, looking around at the table loaded with drinks. Graham already seems to have one in his hand, and he glances at me, the same suspicious look he was giving me in the car.
When the waitress comes, my new friend Brody orders me a water, but Graham steps in, putting his hand on his friend’s chest, his fingers splayed as he pushes Brody a little off balance.
“She’ll have one of those vanilla pineapple things,” he says. The waitress darts her eyes to me, and Graham morphs into his suave self, sliding his arm around me affectionately and leaning his head down to look me in the eyes. “It’s sweet. You’ll like it, I promise.”
I nod okay, even though I don’t really want it, and my inside self screams at me. Graham leaves his arm around me as he begins talking with his friends, and I do my best to ignore the possessive feel of it. It’s nothing like the way Andrew’s touch feels—nothing gentle or seductive or special. It’s barbaric feeling, his arm heavy and hot, and even though I haven’t tried to step out of his grasp, I can tell he wouldn’t let me.
A guy brings our drinks over on a platter, and when he hands Graham his, I notice that Graham spends several long seconds looking at it while the waiter hands out everyone else’s. I take mine, and after a tiny sip, slide it onto the table in front of me. I’m going to do my best to turn it into something that’s forgotten.
Just as the waiter turns to leave, Graham grabs hold of his forearm, stopping him from leaving. The waiter regards his hand, then looks over Graham, I think trying to decide who would hit the other harder in a stand-off.
“I ordered a full drink, and you brought me this,” Graham says, a slight slur to his drunken speech. He’s still very confident sounding, but sloppy around the edges.
The waiter looks down at the drink in Graham’s hand. It’s maybe an inch and a half from being full, a sip short at the most.
“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” the waiter says. I notice Graham’s jaw twitch and his neck tense as he shoves the drink into the waiter’s hand.
“I want you to go get me the right fucking drink!” he seethes. The waiter stares at him, blinking, I think a little stunned and waiting for everyone to laugh like this is a big joke. Only nobody does. I notice Graham’s friends have all moved on and are talking with each other, ignoring this display, which makes me think this is probably normal behavior. “I mean…am I wrong?”
He looks to me for support, and I shake my head slightly, my palms instantly sweating. I want to leave. I want to leave right now.
He turns to one of his friends, nudging him on the arm and motioning to the drink, now held out between them by the waiter.
“Dude, that’s crap, right? I ordered a full fucking drink, and this asshole brings me this. I’m not paying for that. Am I wrong?” His voice is carrying over most of our corner of the bar now, and several people are looking at us. I notice the waiter straighten his posture, rolling his back muscles, gearing up for whatever’s next.
Graham’s friend chuckles and laughs out yeah in response before returning to the conversation he was in before.
“I’ll bring you a new one,” the waiter finally says, muttering to himself as he turns away.
Graham’s eyes drift hazily over to me, and his stare is intense and instantly causes my body to heat up and my back to sweat.
“Did that embarrass you?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to catch up to what he said; I’m too busy wondering if it’s a joke, or if he’s teasing. His mouth never cracks a smile, though.
“A little,” I admit.
He holds his stare on me, then lets his eyes trail down my body in a way that makes me clench my knees together and flex my leg muscl
es, ready to kick and scream and run.
“It shouldn’t embarrass you,” he says.
I don’t make eye contact. As I step closer to the table and run my finger along my drink as a distraction, I shrug and whisper “Maybe.”
I can feel his stare on me, and it makes me mindful of every movement I make. I pull my small purse up to the tabletop and take out my compact, looking in the mirror even though I have no need. I clip it shut again, then move my phone to a place I can view it inside my purse. I slide the screen on and check the time, not quite midnight. I groan inwardly at the thought that I might be stuck here for a while.
My finger is poised over the contacts button when I feel Graham’s breath at my neck.
“You calling that Harper dick?” he questions. There’s a bite to his tone.
“I was checking the time and just making sure my roommate didn’t need anything,” I smile.
I pretend.
His heavy stare lands on me again, and somehow he feels bigger. His shirt is opened at the top, his tie now loose on both sides. It’s funny how this look can be both sexy and repulsive—depending on who and when.
“You know I’m going to fight him?” he asks.
I pinch my brow, wondering what he means. Is he seriously challenging Andrew to a duel? I’m not sure who I’d bet on if he was. I know who my heart would pick.
“I was the Sigma national champ, last year. I’m trying to stay in fighting shape. It’s my hobby, and when I found out Harper liked to box, I thought…well…” he says, his lips slightly curled into a grin.
“I don’t really care for boxing,” I say, wishing the liquid in my glass were water so I could drink it.
Graham’s stare lingers a moment or two longer, then he steps past me to join his circle of friends at the next table, putting an arm around one of the guys. I turn so my back is to him, and I breathe out slowly, clutching my purse in my hands again, convincing them not to tremble. I glance around the bar, to the dozens of plush seating areas with well-dressed couples nestled close to each other, groups of women taking shots and laughing loudly, men running fingers up girls’ legs, teasing them, flirting—fondling.
