You Can Have Manhattan

by P. Dangelico

  Ryan pointed to a break in the fence line. “There.”

  Pure unadulterated fear rushed up on me, my pulse racing with it. All I could think about was Sydney. Wheeling my horse around, I took off at a dead gallop.

  Sydney

  Small puffs of air trailed after me as my legs ate up the paved road that stretched before me for miles, a straight black line cutting the snow-covered landscape in two. It had already been cleared of the snow which had fallen overnight. Above me, the sun shone brightly in the clear cerulean sky. So brightly I could feel a sunburn developing on my nose.

  There wasn’t much that surprised me anymore, but Scott had. The office he’d organized had me close to weeping in gratitude. Then he’d gone and handed me a set of car keys, the Mercedes symbol winking at me from the palm of my hand.

  “For you,” he’d said quietly. “It has deep-tread tires so you don’t have to worry about…” Gazing down at me, he seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. “…bad weather.”

  I was developing a thing for my husband. This was not a good thing, but I had never been a big believer in denial, and now was not a good time to start. I’d developed a very soft spot for the man I’d coerced into marriage. There’d be hell to pay for that.

  Also, I was under no false assumptions. The only reason he was going out of his way to be so accommodating and thoughtful was that he’d been sleeping with other women––per my idiotic instructions––and maybe he felt a certain degree of guilt over it. So what? It didn’t mean he was going to stop. Like he’d said, three years was a long time and men like Scott couldn’t go three days without it. Meanwhile, it was eating me alive. All because my big fat mouth had gotten in the way.

  I picked up the pace, anything to stave off the empty ache I’d been feeling since stepping off the jet. My lungs stung and my limbs burned. The bear spray Scott had given me banged against my ribs. Being back here, running in the clean crisp air, felt good. Moreover, it felt right.

  On the white horizon, two people approached on horseback at a fast clip, their hooves kicking up snow. As they rode closer, I recognized the riders as Ryan and Scott. Ryan waved both arms like the dickens. Slowing to a jog, I popped out my earbuds and waved back.

  “Hands back on the steering wheel, Sutter,” I hollered between my cupped hands and chuckled. I could see Scott yelling, his lips moving, but couldn’t make out what exactly.

  Until I did.

  “Behind you!”

  I glanced over my shoulder and my knees almost buckled. Charging after me, approximately fifty feet away and closing the distance quickly, was a black bull the size of an SUV. Ribbons of smoke curled out of his nostrils as his small beady black eyes had me squarely in his crosshairs….and all I had on me was a freaking can of bear spray.

  I’d never really understood the term fight or flight before this very moment. A shot of adrenaline propelled me forward, legs churning as fast as they humanly could, my feet slapping against the frozen macadam, and the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Then my foot hit a patch of ice and I went flying headfirst. The landing wasn’t pretty. Although my hands broke my fall, my shoulder got the worst of it. Then my head. The blast of a gunshot echoed in the distance. That’s the last thing I remembered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Scott

  “I hate hospitals. Can we go?”

  I was pissed. First, at myself because it was my fault Sydney was in the hospital with a mild concussion, a bruised shoulder, and a banged-up knee. Second, at the invisible monster in the room. Had I not been standing right next to the gurney when the doctor cut away Sydney’s running tights, I wouldn’t have believed it. My wife’s thighs and hamstrings were covered in countless scars; long, pale, and silvery against her natural skin color. They were faded but discernible. Even the doctor was taken aback.

  I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to tear the world in two looking for whoever had done that to her, and I’d do a lot worse if I ever found the son of a bitch.

  “Earth to Scott, come in, Scott.”

  My attention snapped back to her. “Not until the doctor says it’s safe.” I barely managed a civil tone and she gave me a speculative look in response. Which basically summed up every exchange we’d had since she’d returned from her MRI.

  “Whatever.”

  I felt a smile rise up. My wife was a terrible patient. As soon as she’d awakened in my arms as we entered the emergency room, she began demanding to leave. Right in the middle of me shouting at nurses and ordering the doctor to treat her immediately. If there was any doubt that I was my father’s son, that scene dispelled it.

  I fixed the twisted IV line coming out of her arm.

  “Thanks, Nurse Ratched, but I’m good. I’d be even better if we went home.”

  She smiled wryly at me, trying to coax me out of my bad mood. Yeah, it wasn’t happening. Every time I glanced at her––at the bandage around her head––a flood of emotions came over me and none of them good. I couldn’t stand to see her look so small and frail sitting up in the gurney. Less the invincible, high-powered attorney she was. More mortal, and therefore, prone to injury or worse.

  “The doctor said you need to be supervised.”

  “Supervised not suffocated. You’re making me dizzy with all the moving around.”

  That brought me up short. The last thing I wanted to do was to add insult to her injury. “Really?”

  “No, not really. Just chill for a minute…” The delicate features of her face shifted, her expression becoming pensive. “How’d you find me anyway?”

  “Red running tights.” She was silent as she processed my answer. It made me wonder what she was thinking.

  “I can’t believe how lucky I was…” she absently remarked.

  Was she kidding? I had a hard time keeping a lid on my astonishment and not overreacting. “Lucky? You could’ve been killed,” I said, close to shouting. How could she see it as anything other than a stroke of bad luck? “I should’ve gotten rid of that bull months ago.”

  “I mean, lucky that you found me…what are the chances?”

  I’ll always find you. The words rang loud and clear in my head, a truth so absolute I felt it down to the marrow of my bones.

  She sat up straighter and winced, and I felt the pain as acutely as she did. Seeing her lying unconscious on the road with a one-ton bull bearing down on her took ten years off my life.

  I’d dropped Tiny with one shot and there hadn’t been time for another. Not to mention that it really had been dumb luck that she’d worn those red leggings I hated, making it easy to spot her from a distance against the white backdrop.

  “You look green, Scott. For heaven’s sake, I’m––”

  The curtain of the ER bay moved aside. “Ready to be discharged,” the doctor, a tall woman with brown skin, sharp eyes, and short black hair, said upon entering. “But only if your husband promises not to let you out of his sight.”

  Sydney smirked. “He did save my life so I’m guessing he won’t let all that effort go to waste.”

  There was no way I was letting her out of my sight for a minute. My heart couldn’t survive it.

  Trailing after the doctor, a male nurse entered and removed Sydney’s IV.

  “Take it easy for the next two weeks, okay?” the doctor said, leveling Sydney with a pointed look before walking away.

  Gathering up her clothes from the chair (minus the tights), I handed them to her along with a pair of scrubs I’d lifted earlier. “Let me help.”

  “I can handle it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to put my jacket on over this anyway.” She motioned to her light blue hospital gown.

  “You could get dizzy and fall over. Stop being such a pest.”

  That brought a smile to her lips. Her hand came to rest on my shoulder as I held the pants for her while she slipped one leg into them, then the other.

  Yours, a distant voice called out.

  However it had happened didn’t matter
anymore. Life had intervened and brought us together. And now she was mine to keep safe. No one and nothing would ever hurt her again. I’d make sure of it.

  A foreign sense of calm stole over me. It brushed aside the residual anxiety of having almost lost her. That’s when I knew. I’d never felt this way before, not for anyone, and immediately recognized it for what it was. I was falling for my wife.

  Sydney

  Scott knew. He’d seen the scars. The look on his face––the horror––as the doctor had cut away my leggings, could be seen from a mile away. I’d dated some in the past, not a lot, and I’d warned them all, prepared them for the inevitable. It’s not like I could go my entire life hiding my thighs.

  I’d told them I was in a car accident when I was three and didn’t correct their assumptions. It was partly true; I had been in a car accident. Except that’s not what had caused the scars. Without context, however, they looked like what they were––battle scars.

  I glanced over at the man in the driver’s seat and found his face closed for business. Inscrutable. He hadn’t uttered a single word since breaking me out of the hospital. We’d been in the car for twenty minutes and it already felt like twenty thousand, the quiet growing more oppressive than my headache.

  “Nice car,” I finally blurted out because…fuck it.

  A grunt. That’s all I got in reply. So much for small talk.

  With no recollection of how we’d gotten to the hospital, I was surprised when he pulled up to the entrance of the ER in a black-on-black AMG 500 S. Turning into his driveway, he parked in the garage and came around to the passenger side. “You don’t have to carry me. Just let me lean––” Flatly ignoring me, he scooped me up in his arms. “Whoaokay, never mind.”

  Not even a crack in that hard façade. Somebody was in a mood.

  The dogs went crazy at the sight of me being carried, hopping around Scott’s legs and barking as he marched through the house headed for my new bedroom. I’d missed them terribly when I was in New York. Who knew the smell of cheesy feet could inspire longing.

  “Quiet!” Scott shouted, and the dogs, sensing Scott the Grinch was back, ceased barking immediately.

  “Neat trick. I’ve gotta try it sometime.”

  I looked up into his chiseled features as he gently placed me on the bed and his lack of response stole my smile away. The Grinch was not amused.

  “Romeo. Juliet. Out.” As soon as the dogs were ushered out of the room, he slammed the door shut behind them. “What can I get you to eat?”

  “Nothing. I need a shower. I smell like Windex.”

  His gaze softened, sympathy there. “Shower is too dangerous. How about a bath?”

  “Okay.”

  He walked into the attached bathroom, and I heard the water running. When he emerged, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. Despite the pain, despite the possible brain damage I may have incurred, backlit with the white Henley clinging to every curvy muscle of his upper body and his thighs filling out the worn jeans, he looked like a living sex fantasy. One I wanted to explore in real life.

  “I have to stay in the bathroom while you’re in there…for your safety.”

  “Please tell me most women don’t fall for that.”

  He gave me a dimpled smile for the first time all day. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mrs. Blackstone. You could pass out in a hot bath.” At this point, that smile could’ve pretty much made me agree to anything. Heck, I’d put on a clown costume if that was his kink.

  He scooped me back up and my arms automatically wrapped around his neck, holding on like he was the last fixed point on the planet. He felt steady and solid, smelled so good I wanted to sniff his neck and lay my head on his shoulder. In the dimly lit bathroom, he set me on the edge on of the tub and turned off the water. “Get undressed and I’ll help you in,” he said, volume low, tone serious. Then he handed me a towel. “Use this to cover yourself.”

  Truth was, I didn’t care if he saw me naked. The cat was out of the bag already––he’d seen the scars, witnessed me at my most vulnerable. Laid bare, exposed, I had nothing else to protect.

  Turning, he assumed a position. Legs splayed apart and arms crossed. His back muscles bunched and flexed. Which, Lord help me, had me close to drooling. Had I not been seriously injured I would’ve jumped him. It had to be the concussion. The concussion had to be the reason for this over-the-top reaction I was having to him. Yes, I’d always found him attractive, but that didn’t justify the drumbeat I could feel between my legs at the sight, sound, and smell of him now.

  Slowly, I slipped off the hospital gown and the pants Scott had pinched from the ER. My sports bra had been removed in the hospital. All that was left was to ditch my underwear and draped the towel over my bits. It covered my breasts to the very tops of my thighs. Good thing I’d kept my waxing appointment when I was in New York.

  “Ready.”

  Turning, our gazes locked. He’d shed any pretense of indifference, just as I had. Undeniable interest lurked in his eyes. Picking me up once again, he held me above the water. As a general rule, I hated the feeling of being at someone else’s mercy––out of control of my own destiny. But as it turns out, Scott was more solid than I’d ever imagined. More reliable. Not just in size and strength, but also in character. I was beginning to discover he was the kind of person I could lean on.

  Mischief shined in his eyes. “Scared I’m going to drop you?”

  “No,” I lied, as I dug my fingers into the thick part of his bicep. “I’m assuming these aren’t a product of your personal trainer.”

  He shook his head as he stared at my mouth. His knees buckled a fraction, pretending to falter, and I screamed. Clutching his neck tightly, I inadvertently jammed his face against my barely covered breasts and laughed, the sound bouncing off the high barreled ceiling and marble walls.

  “Asshole!”

  “I thought you said you weren’t scared?”

  My laughter died as he lowered me into the water. No regard for the sleeves of his shirt. The towel floated away, but my smile remained.

  “Too hot?” he asked, his voice as sweet and rough as rock sugar.

  “It’s perfect…feels good.” The heat worked its magic, getting into my muscles and bones and soothing all the aches and pains brought on by a high-impact crash on frozen ground. I sank under and dunked my head. When I came up, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the tub. One leg bent, a thick sinuous wrist resting on top of his knee, the other leg straight. For the next few minutes, the only sound to breach the silence was the sound of water moving, the standoff fraught with tension.

  “Are we going to talk about it?” he finally said in a quiet voice.

  Sighing, I swallowed down the embarrassment and pushed aside the shame. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who did that to you?” His voice was underscored with so much palpable fury I debated how much to tell him.

  I’d never talked about it with anyone other than my therapist for a number of reasons. Most of which were all on me. The number one reason: I didn’t want to be perceived as weak, as a “survivor.”

  I didn’t survive anything. I thrived despite my history.

  “My grandfather…my grandmother’s weapon of choice was a solid wooden spoon she liked to use on my knuckles when I was really young––”

  “How young?” The words sounded like they’d been pushed through a grinder. The tendons on the side of his neck were painfully taut. I wanted to kiss him there, kiss away the pain and turn it into pleasure. Let him give me some in return.

  “Five…around five. He started in with the broken fishing rod when I was ten. Only the tops of my legs so no one would see. Didn’t want anybody at church talking. You know––because that was important.”

  “Sick fucks. Was that how they justified it?”

  “No. I’ve met plenty of religious fanatics and some were perfectly nice people. My grandparents hid behind religion, but they were
standard-issue abusers. Told me repeatedly it was for my own good.”

  “And your parents?”

  “They were teenagers. My mom got pregnant at sixteen. Dad was seventeen. They ran away and were killed in a car accident in Oregon––outside of Portland. I was three at the time and somehow survived. My grandparents on my dad’s side didn’t want me so Bill and Claire Evans took me in. Tried to fix all the ways they went wrong with my mother.”

  Scott reached into the tub and fished out my hand. I gave it to him willingly. Later, I would see it for what it was, his tender heart offering to share the pain. In the moment, however, all I knew was that it felt good to tell him. We’re not built to be alone. We need to connect. We’re designed to seek common ground, to hold each other up, to nurture one another. And he did that for me instinctually.

  Holding it gently, he scrutinized the scars on my knuckles, where the skin was paler than the rest of my hand.

  “Lasers. Bleaching cream. Alpha hydroxy. Lanolin cream…I’ve tried it all.”

  “Are they dead? Because if they’re not––”

  “He’s been dead for ten years. She died two months ago.”

  He turned back around, facing the wall. “How can you be so cool about it?”

  That induced a cynical smile. He was angry on my behalf and wanted me to be angry too. But I couldn’t meet him there. Anger hadn’t served me. It had only managed to keep me closed off. My past was more barren than not, the rest was littered with the carcasses of so-called relationships that never lasted more than three months––if that.

  “I’ve been processing it all my life, Scott. I’ve got a head start.” He got quiet, head bowed, and I began feeling increasingly uncomfortable, the water turning cold, telling me I’d overstayed my welcome. Maybe I’d said too much. Maybe he’d see me as weak now. My mind went straight to all the negative stuff. “I don’t want your pity, Scott.”