by K. L. Savage
So much.
I walk to the passenger side of the Bronco and slide in. Homer reverses, the tires crunching over the leaves, and as we drive past the van, the heat from the blaze hits my face, and I relish in it. The air immediately gets cooler the further we drive away from it. I look down to see Scarlett has fallen asleep against my chest. I push her hair out of the way with my finger, like I did earlier, and I take in all her features, memorizing them, searing them into my memory. I never want to forget.
When I’m old, out of my mind, more than I already am, and the only thing I can remember is my youth, I want to remember Scarlett like this. I want to remember her trusting me when I’m sure she didn’t want to. I want to remember the glowing wildfire of her irises when I first locked my gaze with hers. I want to remember the soft curves of her jaw, the length of her lashes, the blue hue of her hair…
Damn it, I want to remember everything about her.
“You’re out of your mind,” Homer says, taking his eyes off the road for a split second to look at me.
“Don’t I know it,” I whisper, not wanting to wake Scarlett up by speaking too loudly. Her ear is right against my chest, and I know the vibrations can interrupt her sound sleep.
“No, really. She’s out of your league, and she has a lot of healing to do.”
“Wow, Homer. Thanks,” I snort.
“She is,” Wolf chimes in. “Has a heart of a lion too. She ripped me a new one for not doing enough, but I did try. I did.” He looks over at the girls asleep on either side of him. “I should have done more. She was right. She’s the only reason Abigale got to you.”
“Abigale’s not in the best shape. She’s really ill, and that gunshot wound isn’t helping.” I want to know what happened, but rolling down memory lane isn’t the best thing to do right now. Emotions are running high, but the only person who matters to me is Scarlett.
“That’s my fault,” Wolf speaks up. “Scarlett came up with the idea, and Abigale agreed because she was so sick, but it had to look like I took care of the problem, you know? I had to make it believable until help arrived … if help arrived.”
“I understand,” I say. He has no idea how much I relate.
“I had to,” he explains himself. “My sister—”
“Hey,” I cut him off. He feels like he has to explain himself, but he doesn’t owe me any answers. Not right now, at least. “Don’t. I get it, okay? No one blames you. I know you blame yourself, but that’s something you have to figure out on your own. You have to come to terms with it. You did what you thought was right for you and yours and, man, that’s all you can do. It’s behind you now, and whatever lies ahead is going to be rough, so you need to be ready. There is no room for self-pity or blame. This is war; you get me. Fucking war. I need your head in the game. Everyone’s head. We have to win because this can’t happen again.” I point with my eyes to the girls on either side of him and tighten my hold around Scarlett. “This is cruel.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, and the proclamation makes me feel sick.
“Don’t call me that. It’s Boomer, or you can call me Jenkins, but not sir.”
“I’m just thinking, maybe if they had a leader like you, none of this would have happened,” Wolf says.
I stare down at Scarlett, brushing her soft hair back. While I wish I could’ve been there to stop this shit from happening, I’m no leader. I’m a fucking wreck. I’m what they call a temporary fix. That’s all I am, and that’s all I’ll ever be. “No, man. I’m the last thing anyone needs,” I say it more to Scarlett than to Wolf. She can do better than me. She doesn’t deserve someone who battles their mind every day. She’s dealt with enough.
Selfishly, I want her to deal with me. I want her to fix me because I have no idea how to fix myself. The booze, the women, I’ve even done drugs—none of it makes it go away, but Scarlett and those fire blue eyes lessen my pain, my self-torment.
What do I need to blow up or burn down to figure out how I can get her to never let go of me? Because I need someone to hold on.
8
Scarlett
I wake up to the smell of coffee. It drips into the pot, steaming to alert that it’s almost done. My back is against something soft, and I moan when I feel the pillow under my head. I’ll never take for granted something as common as a bed again, not when my bones still hurt from the cement ground I sat on for too long.
I try to sit up, but my skin rubs against the cover, and I whimper. It’s raw, scratched, just like an open wound. My eyes flutter open, ready to see a dark room with wet walls and no light, but I don’t. The sun peeks through the window, and a breeze comes through the screen. I inhale, smelling the salt and the sea. I can hear the waves lightly crashing against the shore, and my emotions spike. I want to cry, but only happy tears.
I’m really out of that basement. I never thought I’d see the ocean again, hear it, or feel the sun. I concluded that my life was doomed.
“Hey.” The familiar voice of my hero makes me turn over to see him sitting at the small round table in a chair that looks like it can barely hold his weight. He’s a big guy, tall, and really handsome. I can’t help but stare at him and all his hard angles. “You’re up. I was getting worried. You slept for so long.”
“What do you mean? It’s only morning.” I yawn and try to stretch, but my body hurts too damn much.
He stands, and that’s when I notice he isn’t wearing a shirt. I glance away, not wanting to get caught staring at him. He has tattoos, so many tattoos, just like the biker guys who kidnapped me, but I know he’s better than them. He’s proved otherwise. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I close my eyes, wishing the damn blush away. I hate my pale skin. It always tells what I’m feeling, and I can’t stand it.
Boomer’s wide-set shoulders and firm pecs make me feel something I shouldn’t want to feel—desire.
“Scarlett, it’s nearly sunset. You’ve been here two days, sugar. You were exhausted. I can’t say I blame you.” His voice becomes soft, lighting the masculine depth it usually holds.
“Oh, wow. That long? I still feel like I could sleep for days.” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a ten-pound bag of rocks. I reach my hand up to touch my neck and feel the raised, chapped skin where the collar was.
I’m not there anymore. I’m not there anymore. They can’t hurt me.
“Go right ahead. I’ve been keeping watch, so has Wolf and Homer. You’re safe here. I promise.” The way he looks at me as he says those words, it’s almost as if he’s saying he’ll slay dragons if it means keeping me safe.
Damn him and his intense gaze.
He grabs a shirt from the other chair and slips it on to cover his beautiful body. No! He’s the best thing I’ve seen since that piece of bread I ate a few days ago. Take it off! Take the damn shirt off!
“Sorry about the room. I know it isn’t the nicest. I’m working with Homer to repair this place and get it in tip-top shape.” The shirt falls to his hips, hiding the flawless skin. Part of the shirt on the left side is caught somehow, rolled up to show skin.
I manage to push myself up and lean against the headboard, never taking my eyes off the small patch of flesh. My eyes follow him as he strides over to the coffee pot on the dresser. Even his walk is smooth yet determined, powerful and graceful all at the same time. “The room is amazing. It’s much better than the alternative,” I say, gathering the sheets to cover my body. I’m in a big black T-shirt, but I still feel vulnerable and naked. I’m still in my dirty underwear and bra, and as much as I want to change, I’m happy that Boomer respected me enough to keep them on. The thought of any man seeing me naked right now, after knowing what was about to happen to me… I’m relieved to know the only thing Boomer did was cover me.
“Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should have thought. I’m fucking stupid. I’m sorry.” He slaps his head with his palm, telling himself over and over again how worthless he is. It isn’t a new thing, that much I know. This looks like a habit.
/>
“Hey, you aren’t stupid, and you aren’t worthless. You saved my life; does that sound like someone who is stupid or worthless? I’d be someone’s whore if it wasn’t for you.” I take a deep breath from the harsh words, but they’re true. I can’t look around. I can’t bury it, or pretty it up and put a bow on it. That was going to be my life.
He stares at me while holding the side of his head, scratching his scalp. There’s torment in his eyes, a secret I don’t know, but he’s battling himself. “It’s not just that,” I think he said, but he spoke so low, I could hardly hear. “Anyway.” He clears his throat. “Do you want coffee? I’ve been making a fresh pot every few hours just in case you woke up. I have some pain medicine too. It’s just Tylenol, but until I find a doctor, it’s the best I can do.”
“Coffee would be great. Thank you,” I reply, watching his every move. I never take my eyes off him because I find him fascinating. He pours two cups and puts the pot back in its place before turning around and coming my way. Boomer hands me a simple white mug, something similar to what a diner would have, and that’s when I notice he’s missing a finger. I don’t keep my eyes on it too long because I’m not sure I want to know yet, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but I am curious.
The jagged scar tells me whatever happened was painful, and that hurts my heart for him.
“Sorry, I don’t have creamer or sugar, sugar.” He chuckles, winking at me with those long, thick lashes framing his chocolate eyes, and I look away and stare at the steam rising from my coffee instead. “Plus, I like it black. All that shit in it doesn’t really make it coffee, does it?” he asks, slurping the hot java down.
“No, I suppose not. I drink it black too, so no need for all that shit,” I say, and when he hears the curse word fall from my lips he laughs.
“Never thought someone as pretty as you would say such a thing.”
He thinks I’m pretty. My heart is beating at a fatal rate, and I’m not able to form words to reply. I just drink my coffee because I don’t know what else to do.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure you aren’t wanting to hear shit like that right now.”
“It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to admit no one has ever given me such a sweet compliment before. My eyes drift to his hand again, to the finger that isn’t there, as I drink my coffee. We fall into a comfortable silence. I don’t feel the need to say anything; just having him near me is peaceful. I groan when I readjust my sitting position, and the mug falls out of my hands because the quick stab of pain on my right butt cheek takes me by surprise. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. My skin hurts so much!” My eyes start to well, and Boomer bends over to grab the mug off the floor.
“It’s alright. Really, it’s fine. It can be cleaned up.”
“My skin hurts so bad,” I whimper, the pain too much to bare. I’m not sure why it’s suddenly hitting me so hard, but I can’t stand it. I feel like my flesh is falling off.
He cups my face gently, not rubbing my red cheeks, so he doesn’t hurt me, and he nods, like he understands the pain I’m going through. “I know, sugar. I know it does. Your skin is in pretty bad shape being down there on the wet concrete like that. I’ve put some salve on it, and it numbed it up, but it must be wearing off. I got you some stuff to take a soothing oatmeal bath too. I wish I could take your pain away; I really do.” He pushes the tangled mess of my hair behind my shoulder, and I look at my hands, wrinkled, peeling, chapped and pink. My fingers look like prunes, but I haven’t soaked in a bath for too long.
I guess I have. I sat in a puddle of water and my own piss for days. It makes sense that I’m so disgusting right now. I don’t even know how Boomer can stand to be near me. I’m sure I’m a nightmare to look at. “I’m sorry this has landed in your lap, Boomer. Once I’m healed—”
“It isn’t a hardship, sugar. It really isn’t.”
If I’m not mistaken, his eyes fall to my lips, but it’s so quick I’m wondering if I’m imagining things. I want him to kiss me, I realize. I want to feel his big lips against mine. I’ve never seen a man with lips like his before. They’re perfect. His bottom lip is the same size as the top, thick and plush; the kind a woman can get lost in for hours and hours to forget time.
Then suddenly she is naked with him on top of her.
Yeah, those kinds of lips.
I look away from him, needing to take a breath. “How are my friends?” I ask. I should have asked earlier, but Boomer has a way of making me forget, and I need that right now because I want to forget everything.
His hands fall from my face, and his palm rubs over the stubble along his jawline. “They’re alright. I can’t remember her name, but one of them is very sick, but she isn’t as bad as Abigale. Abigale needs a doctor; she’s getting worse every day. I’m pretty sure that gunshot wound is infected. You can see them later, if you want,” he offers. “I’ll take you to them.”
“I don’t think I can move right now,” I admit. “Can I have that Tylenol?”
“Yeah, sugar. You can have whatever you want.” He stands up, placing both coffee mugs on the round table, and he walks over to the dresser and grabs the bottle of Tylenol. He opens it effortlessly and pours four into his hand. He then grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge, opens that too, and then he hands them over to me.
“Thank you, Boomer.”
“Whatever you need, I’m here.”
I roll the white tabs in my palm and toss them into my mouth, following it with a cold gulp of water. Oh, that tastes good. I keep drinking it, wanting more—needing more. The water flows out of the corner of my mouth as I chug it.
“Woah, hey. Stop, slow down, sugar. Slow. You’re going to make yourself sick.” Boomer gently wraps his hand around the bottle and pulls it from my lips. I’m breathing hard, and I try to reach for it again, but he holds it away from me. “I know. You’re dehydrated, but you have to take things slow. Your body isn’t used to this, okay? I’m going to put the rest in the fridge. I want to make sure you don’t throw it up.”
He means well, but I want the water so bad. “Please, Boomer. I’m so thirsty.” It’s amazing that I had no idea until the water hit my tongue.
“I know, sugar.” He runs his index finger along my jawline. “I’m just looking out for you. How about I draw you a nice bath, and you can get cleaned up? I got you new clothes and under … things.” His cheeks turn a bright shade of red when he mentions bra and panties. He’s had to have taken off a lot of them, so why is he so coy about it? “I uh...” He coughs into his fist. “I looked at your bra size to find out. You were sleeping. I’m sorry. I just wanted to get clean clothes for you.”
The aggravation I felt about the water quickly disappears. He must have felt so out of his comfort zone when he got my clothes. He’s so sweet. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I can’t wait to feel clean.”
“Not going to let you stay in dirty clothes, just like the others. Your life is yours now. It doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Just like the others. I’m not special to him. I need to remember that. Boomer is being kind, and I’m falling head over heels in love with a man who’s just doing the right thing.
“How about I fix you a bath?” he asks.
I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear. “That would be great.”
“And maybe after, you can call your parents? Or husband, boyfriend…” He leaves the sentence open, the muscle in his jaw flexing.
I hold back a whimper when I move my legs to the edge of the bed, swinging them over to get myself to the restroom. “No husband or boyfriend. I do have parents, but I don’t want to call. Not yet.” It’s probably the wrong decision, but I know they’ll want to come wherever I am, and with how I look and feel, I don’t want to burden them with that. My feelings are enough to deal with. I can’t handle theirs right now. It’s selfish, but I need time.
“Whatever you want, sugar. I’d like to hear about them.”
I push myself up, and my knees give out. I fall back to land on the bed; even with the soft top, I know it’s going to hurt.
But Boomer is there. He catches me, one arm around my waist, and the other swoops down and lifts me up off the floor. “I’m here, okay? Let me help you.”
What happens when he isn’t here? What happens when I’m alone? I don’t ever want to be alone again, especially in the dark.
9
Boomer
This woman is going to test me. I can already see bits of her personality coming out. She’s independent and likes to do things on her own, and that’s too fucking bad. I’m going to be here. I’m going to take care of her, and she’s going to see that she never has to be alone again.
The words from earlier whisper in my mind, reminding me that I don’t deserve her.
Stupid. Worthless. Crazy. Go kill them. Go kill them. Go kill them.
It won’t stop. It’s a record on repeat, and breaking it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to overcome. I don’t know how to make it stop.
“Hey, are you okay?” Scarlett asks, touching my chin with her fragile fingertips. I want to bend down and kiss them, shower them with love, but I don’t know how. I don’t love myself, so how do I go about showing it to someone else when on a good day, I hate myself at best?
“What? I’m fine, sugar. I promise.” I place her on the olive-green toilet seat as gently as I can. I know how much her skin hurts, and the last thing I want to do is hurt her. I lean down and turn the hot and cold handles at the same time. They’re those old flower looking handles that beach homes have from the damn nineties. I can’t wait to make this place my own. First thing I'm changing is the bathroom. It’s cringe worthy.
