She’s wearing a black dress that accentuates her figure and shows off her long, tanned legs. Her brown hair is pulled back into a side twist.
She’s breathtakingly beautiful.
“Abby,” I ask quietly. “How was your night?”
“You know, the usual,” she shrugs her shoulders and turns to address my brother.
“You look very professional, Sterling Ahern.” She smirks at him.
“Well, well, well…” My brother perks up and pushes himself off the couch. “If it isn’t little Abby Lyons.”
He takes her hands, extending her arms and looking at her from head to toe. “It’s been so long. I remember the last time I saw you, you wore a pair of sweats and your glasses.”
Abby glowers at him not amused. “Give me a break, I was studying for my finals.”
“I owe you a graduation present,” he says, twirling her around.
“You’re a vision, little Abby.” He whistles. “I’d love to sculpt you—paint you. Pose for me.”
“Ha,” she huffs, moving away from his grasp. “As if that line would ever work on me. I can’t believe so many women fall for your charm.”
Sterling grins. “You can try to pretend that you’re immune to the Aherns.” He looks at me. “But you’re not. You dig us.”
“You’re a conceited jerk.” She scrunches her nose.
His jaw drops. “If my mother were here, she’d be disappointed with your language, young lady.”
“Whatever.” She waves her hand. “The receptionist told me to come to see you right away.”
Abby narrows her gaze, walks around the desk and squeezes my hand. “What’s going on, Wes?”
She’s beautiful, smart, and a great listener, but what I love the most about her is that she knows my moods. I don’t have to say much for her to understand that I need her to comfort me.
“What did you do to him, Slugger?” She crosses her arms narrowing her gaze.
“Dudette, it’s not my fault that he needs anger management.” He pretends to wash his hand. “I’m an innocent bystander.”
“The board called an emergency meeting,” I say resting my head against the back of the chair and closing my eyes.
“We should just dismiss them all and then sell this joint,” Sterling suggests. “It’s not like you love working for this company.”
“That’s not how it works.” I rub both hands down my face.
It’s not that simple. They represent the future shareholders of the company. That’s what Dad was working on, making the company public, and as his successor, I’m continuing his work.
Sterling looks at Abby and says, “Tell him, Abbs. You and I both know that this isn’t what he wanted to do. He listens to you.”
“You’re exaggerating, Slugger. But what’s your idea?
“We sell this shithole and he can start his own company.”
“Oh my God, I should document this day,” Abby takes a pen and scribbles on her hand. “Sterling used his brain for something other than throwing out a pickup line.”
“I haven’t had my caffeine, Abigail, but wait until I do. You’ll be crying uncle.”
“Whatever,” she says rolling her eyes. “What happened to the software you were developing?” she asks me.
I stopped working on it and all the other projects. As much as I love developing apps and games and creating new software, I don’t have time to dabble in that while I’m trying to keep up with my father’s company. My goal is to keep my father’s legacy alive for Mom.
“I don’t have any free time.”
“You could, if you delegated,” Sterling says challenging me with his gaze.
“Where’s the Wes Ahern who makes things happen?” Abby asks, drinking some of my coffee.
“She’s right, Weston.”
These two are friendly, but when it comes to teaming up against me, they are one in the same.
My phone buzzes; I glance at it and see that it’s my mother.
Mom: Wes, I woke up to a message from the board. What happened?
Wes: I’m wondering the same thing, Mom. I’ll take care of it.
Mom: Good, because I’m busy this week. We decided to cancel the trip to Italy and head to Alaska instead. It’s lovely during the summer. Take care of yourself. Call me on Sunday.
Sterling and Mom insist that I should sell the company if it doesn’t make me happy. We have enough assets to buy out the board before we sell it. If it were mine, maybe I wouldn’t mind opening a software subdivision. The current organization of the company doesn’t allow for much free time, or give me room to delegate like my father used to do. If the board feels like I’m not doing enough, they’ll try to kick me out as the CEO.
“Hey, I’m here,” Abby says reassuringly. “We’ll figure it all out.”
I believe her. We always solve our problems and work through any complications that arise—together.
13
Abby
So much for respecting my wishes. I asked him not to give me any special treatment, and what does he do? He gives me his old office. It’s a beautiful space, with a solid cherry desk, matching bookshelves, and leather chairs that go with the loveseat, all framed by a spectacular view of the mountains.
“Everyone is going to hate me.”
“Why would they?”
“The accounting department downstairs isn’t quite the executive offices,” I state the obvious, walking around the freshly painted space and kneeling to feel the fluffy carpet.
“You’re not just any accountant.”
I laugh at his ridiculous remark. “So what kind of accountant am I?”
“You handle my mother’s affairs, Sterling’s business, and the charity fund.”
“So, this is like a personal favor?”
“I’m giving you exactly what Dad was already planning. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I study his eyes, then his posture. He’s distraught about the board, and I’m not making it any easier for him. How can I get him to understand that I don’t want any of the staff to think I’m only here because of nepotism?
He hired me to be Sterling’s accountant and manage his portfolio because he hates to charge for is art. His mother is an independent woman. I just don’t think they need me.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt you,” a man enters the office without waiting for us to acknowledge him.
My stomach gets queasy as I detect a citrusy, fresh male scent. It’s not strong but it hits my memory bank hard. I close my eyes briefly reminding myself that I’m with Wes, at work.
“Good morning, Lucian,” Wes answers. “Let me introduce you to Abigail Lyons.”
“I didn’t know we were hiring new personnel.” His gaze narrows as he looks at me from top to bottom.
“Your face looks familiar. Abigail, you said?” The way he enunciates my name sends a shiver racing across my skin.
He doesn’t know me. I swallow through a suddenly tight throat, fighting the fear. Air. I need air. I fight off a rush of emotions, but I’m losing the battle. My sight becomes distorted when the man walks toward me with his hand extended; his grin increases. The way he stares at me makes me tremble. He’s a predator about to catch his meal. My breath quickens and my heart beats wildly. I can’t breathe. It’s him.
Think, Abby, think.
It’s the muddy green eyes with brown flecks—the crooked nose—the same scar on his chin.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand. “I—”
Suddenly, it’s not Lucian’s voice that I hear. It’s him. Corbin. I’m gasping for air, fighting the anxiety, but keeping my eyes open to make sure that he won’t do anything. This time I won’t let him. I can scream, run … he won’t catch me this time.
“You look hungry, Abigail. Ava didn’t work for her meal. How about you?”
“Breathe for me,” Wes says slowly. His voice pulls me away from the old house. I’m no longer in the dark room, but back in the comfort of the office w
ith him. “You’re safe with me.”
I’ll never be safe from my past. God only knows if I’m safe from Corbin.
The fear crashes into me unexpectedly. Why did Lucian trigger the memories? I was dragged all the way back into his world. I could feel his breath, feel his voice vibrating throughout the dark room.
I cry, recoiling into a small ball.
“Where are you, Abby?” Wes asks, studying my face.
His thumb moves, caressing the delicate skin of my inner wrist.
“I’ll bring some water, sir,” I hear Lucian’s voice.
This time I can differentiate that it’s not Corbin.
“You’re here with me,” he says with a calm voice. “Safe. Always safe.”
“Safe,” I repeat but I don’t believe it.
“You’re safe with me. It’s us. Always us,” he kisses my palm.
It’s a casual gesture, one he’s done many times. Except today it feels different. Intense. It sends ripples of pleasure awakening every nerve in me. I can feel the stroke from the kiss all over my body. Deep inside my soul. This doesn’t make sense. Each and every emotion inside of me seems to be focusing on Wes. They press against my chest in the same way I wish he’d press his body against mine.
Hug me. Take me in your arms, I want to beg.
I don’t know if I speak out loud or if he reads my mind, but the next thing I know he’s sitting on the couch, taking me in his arms. His warm hold, his earthy scent mixed with clean skin create an ache in my chest that expands all the way down to my core. I begin to cry. The tears are for Ava, for Abby, and for everything I lost in that room.
But I also mourn my heart. Weston Ahern and I are the kind of people who share a friendship that will never become romantic love.
We remain in the same position for a long time. I can’t stop the tears from falling. Lucian isn’t my stepfather. His resemblance to what still torments me to this day was just too close. The voice, the way he looked at me as if I were his next meal was too much, and it pushed me into a panic attack.
When my stepfather, Corbin, came into our lives, he seemed like a dream—or at least he appeared that way to my mother.
He played the single father who’d lost his wife in a tragic accident. A man who was left to grieve and be the sole caretaker of his two children.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Wes asks when I finally calm down.
I don’t answer. There are things I can’t say. I know what could happen if I were to reveal his secrets.
— — —
Wes canceled all his meetings and took me home. We shopped for my furniture online from the comfort of his house. The man who can move heaven and earth made sure that what we purchased would arrive at my apartment the same day. Once the stuff was in place, I excused myself and took a shower to wash away the memories.
Wes said that he’d be going back home to make a few calls. I took him away from the office for an entire day—while he’s trying to show the board that his only priority is the company. This was what I was afraid of and wanted to avoid—losing my mind in the middle of the day. Shit like this never happened in Berkeley.
Without giving it a second thought, I turn on my laptop and begin updating my resume. I don’t have much experience, but there must be a company out there searching for an accountant. My degree and skills are practical and necessary. I could get a job anywhere in the country. Wes might be upset at first, but he’ll eventually understand that it’s for the best. What’s the point of living here when neither one of us can find peace?
I hate myself for being so weak. Should I go to therapy? And then what? How is anyone going to help me?
Linda took me to a few different therapists. None of them worked out. They wanted to know what had happened to me, not give me the tools I needed to cope. Neither of them could understand that I wasn’t going to talk—ever.
* * *
No one will never know what happened that night. They can never know. I should leave, just run away tonight.
He’s going to find you and when he finds you … he’ll take you back to the room.
I run to the kitchen and hide inside the pantry. He’ll never find me here. At least, not tonight.
14
Wes
“Hey, Mom,” I answer the phone before it even rings.
“Weston, darling,” she says with the exasperated voice she used when we were younger and she had to play bad cop in Dad’s absence.
It wasn’t often, as Dad was only out of town maybe two or three times a year.
“How are you, Mom?”
“I feel a migraine coming on.”
Migraines are headaches, Mom. I imagine her holding her back and slumping her shoulders. It’s the same line she’s been using ever since I can remember. Our behavior was the root of those aches she complained about so much while I was growing up. Sadly, she couldn’t say to Dad, “Will, they’re all yours to deal with.”
A pang of pain hits me in the middle of the chest. If Dad were here, he’d know what to do with the company. Mom wouldn’t feel lonely, and I would’ve started my own company, the way I’d planned to before he died.
“I’m sorry that you’re not feeling well. How can I help to make it better?”
“The board dear,” she says with resignation. “Why can’t we just sell the company and forget about them? That’s your father’s business. Neither one of us is invested, darling boy.”
“Mom, I can take care of it.”
“Well, they don’t think so,” she states in a bitter voice. “Of course, they don’t know anything about you. They called upset that I didn’t show up yesterday. That the entire family in fact, disregarded their request.”
I run a hand through my hair.
Before I can say anything, she asks, “What was the medical emergency that took you away from the office?”
“Abby,” I breathe out her name. “She had a panic attack.”
Mom remains silent for a few seconds. I walk outside on the terrace, leaning against the railing and staring at the horizon. The sun is setting in the west, the moon rising as it goes down. I wish Abby were with me, admiring the view. Abby, who’s as fragile as a crystal figurine. Or maybe she’s stronger than we think and what she survived is worse than we imagined.
“Wes, sweetheart. She should be anywhere but in Denver.”
“Some days, I think that what happened to her is bigger than what we know, Mom.”
“The trauma of witnessing …” Mom pauses. “Sweetheart, her sister was killed in front of her,” she reminds me.
“Mom,” I sigh with frustration.
My guess is that she wasn’t a just witness but also a victim. She’s always begging for someone to stop, as if she were being tortured.
What happened to you, Abby?
“What do you mean, Wes?”
“Forget it, Mom.” Sometimes I feel like she knows more but chooses to suppress it.
I promised Abby that I’d never reveal what I’ve heard her saying.
Should I keep my word?
I guess I can keep it secret for now. I doubt Abby would appreciate it if I told Mom what I heard last night—or today for that matter. She begged for food, for him to stop, for him to leave Ava alone. She wanted him to kill her.
My heart stopped when I heard her plea, “Kill me. Just let me die.”
I had no idea if she was talking to me or to the ghosts from her past. Either way, I held her tightly because I couldn’t imagine life without my girl. Not that she’s a girl anymore, or actually mine.
“Have you told her how you feel?”
“Mom, please don’t start,” I warn her.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re in love, or if you’re just trying to save her.”
“Can it be both?”
“Have you asked yourself if maybe saving isn’t what she needs? Maybe she doesn’t need to be saved, but loved.”
How can she doubt the way I feel about Abby? I would die for tha
t girl. She fills my thoughts before I sleep. I dream that she’s with me, safe in my arms. In the morning, she’s on my mind again as soon as I wake up. I have given her my heart without regret, for my heart’s sake. The mere thought of losing her makes me sick. It would break me.
“I love her.”
“But she doesn’t know that,” Mom says sternly. “I noticed that you keep her close, yet still at arm’s length. What is it you’re afraid of?”
I close my eyes as her question sinks in. What is it I’m afraid of? There’s nothing that scares me. I survived the first years of my life by eating what I could find in trashcans or what the adults gave us when they remembered to feed the children who lived among them. For a moment I’m frozen with fear, remembering the house where I grew up. But I snap out of the trance right away.
That’s not where I belong. I have a family and a home. I’m old enough to care for myself—to defend myself.
“She’s been away,” I explain. “Why would I want to have a long-distance relationship?”
“You’re telling me that now that she’s close, you plan on changing your relationship with her?”
I hesitate to answer for several breaths. How can I when she’s so breakable, so fragile?
“Maybe you’re confusing your feelings for her, Wes,” Mom insists.
There’s no confusion when it comes to my feelings for her. Abigail Lyons is the only woman who not only makes me crave her sexually, but who also holds my heart in her hands. She’s vulnerable, fun, witty, and smart. She’s not afraid of climbing mountains, scuba diving, or skydiving. She yearns to help others whenever she can.
She’s perfect in so many ways, yet still stubborn at times, and elusive whenever faced with her past. I sigh. If only she were willing to share that part she’s hiding. Together we could fight against whatever is creating so much pain inside her.
“I’m not afraid of anything, Mom,” I finally answer.
“You’re afraid that you’re not meeting your father’s expectations,” she says as her voice trembles. “You’re afraid that Abigail won’t love you the way you love her.”
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