Hidden Scars

by Amanda K. Byrne

  Sometime later, she was hanging back with Taylor, his arm around her waist as she poked through a jewelry booth. She was eyeing a pair of hematite and silver dangles when his phone rang. Nodding absently when he murmured he was going to go take the call, she calculated whether she had enough cash to buy them or if she’d have to use a credit card.

  He came back as she was dropping the earrings into her purse. Nothing of the conversation he’d had showed on his face. She went on alert, allowing him to draw her away from the crowd. She rested her hands on his chest, his wool sweater soft under her fingertips. “What is it?”

  “Jamie. My younger brother,” he clarified. “Tony’s paid a visit to my parents. I need to call him back, and then I need to talk to my parents. I’m sorry, Sara. I’ve got to go. Can you get home on your own?”

  “Go,” she said immediately. Fear raced through her, fear for Taylor’s parents, for his brother, fear of Tony who was hell-bent on screwing up Taylor’s life all the way from the East Coast. “I’ll be fine. I’ll probably spend the rest of the day with my parents anyway.”

  He hesitated, then gave her a long, hard kiss before striding away, phone already at his ear.

  “Sara? Is everything all right?” Her mother walked over, concern etched in the lines of her face.

  She glanced once more at Taylor’s retreating figure. “Yeah. No, I’m fine. Taylor had some family stuff to handle.” She turned to her mother. “I was thinking maybe I’d head over to Concepts. It’s about time I got the guest room set up, don’t you think?”

  Mom’s expression had morphed into something like guilt. “Sara, are you sure you should be spending time with that man?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and her mother rushed on. “You used to be so outgoing and talkative. Happy go lucky. Taylor’s so reserved and quiet, and you’ve become more like him. You shouldn’t have to change who you are for a man, sweetheart.”

  “Whoa.” She held up a hand to cut her off. “First of all, I’m not changing for him. I changed after Sam, Mother. You want to blame someone, blame him. Second, you just met him and you’re already passing judgment? Taylor’s actually helped me quite a bit in the last few months. I’m starting to realize there’s no point in worrying about what other people think of me. And you know what else? He makes me happy. Very, very happy.” She was, she realized, happier now than she had been in years. “I have no idea what’s between us, or how long it’s going to last.” She blew out a breath. “And for once, I don’t care.”

  Angry and hurt, she stalked away.

  * * *

  Taylor hurried to his car, the grip on his phone hard enough to crack the plastic case. “Tell me again what’s been going on.”

  On the other end of the line, Jamie sighed. “I’m probably making it sound worse than it is. Some men have taken to hassling Ma when she’s out in the neighborhood, making veiled threats, nothing too specific. It’s enough to get her worked up, but most everything gets her worked up. Pop got into a little pushy shovey a few days ago. No injuries.”

  He unlocked the car and got in. “You seen them?”

  “Yeah. Went over yesterday after work. Pop’s got her calm for the time being. She’ll probably start freaking out again when you call.”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky and Pop will answer the phone instead.”

  Jamie snorted. “And pigs will fly out of my ass.” Their mother always answered the phone. Getting Pop on the phone was next to impossible.

  He’d hope anyway. He said goodbye to his brother and started the car, heading for home.

  His apartment felt cramped and small after the openness of Sara’s house, and he slumped onto the couch, staring at the silent TV. Leaving Boston was supposed to have stopped this shit. But part of him knew it was only a matter of time. It’d been his scholarship and Matt who’d gotten him out. It had been Tony’s own twisted code that had kept his family out of harm’s way all these years.

  He’d thought could run from the past. Looked like he hadn’t run far enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sara was still fuming over her mother’s opinion the next morning as she shoved furniture around her living room. The drop cloths snapped in the air as she shook them out and flung them over the floor, cursing as she lined them up with the walls. Then she made the mistake of looking over at her windows and her frustration reached a fever pitch.

  Cutting in around the trim was going to be a pain in the ass.

  She wrestled her new step ladder in through the front door and set it up next to the windows. She knew her mother was extremely protective of her. Mom liked to pretend otherwise, but Sara and her father were well aware her mother was having a hard time allowing Sara to live anywhere other than Phoenix. And just because she’d always been a friendly, bubbly girl didn’t mean she’d always felt that way.

  It stung. She wanted her parents to like Taylor, although she wasn’t certain why it mattered so much.

  “You look like you’re about ready to kill someone.”

  Sara grabbed the ladder rungs to keep from falling off. Megan grinned at her from the entryway, a bandana covering her blond hair. “Jesus, don’t do that, woman! Ladders and scares don’t mix!” She lifted the curtain rod out of its cradle and tipped it down, lowering one point to the floor.

  Zanna came in behind Megan, her green eyes sleepy. “You’re the one who told us to come on in. By the way, painting first thing Sunday morning isn’t real high on my list of favorite activities.”

  “Mine, either. However, if I don’t do something about it now I’ll be staring at dull walls for as long as I’m in this house.” She climbed down the ladder and headed for the kitchen. Her mp3 dock sat on the counter, and she switched it on, selecting Tool and turning the volume to a shade below deafening.

  Megan came up and slapped the volume down. “Whoa there, mommas. The angry panda routine has to stop for a minute while you explain what’s got you all growly.”

  She scowled at her friend. “Nothing. Everything.” She slid down the wall until her ass hit the floor. “Shit. It’s no one thing. Work’s been hell, I started looking for a new job and the economy is crappy, my parents showed up for an impromptu visit, and after having met Taylor for all of five seconds, my mother has decided he’s changed me and she doesn’t like it and he’s not good for me.”

  Zanna wandered in and sat cross-legged beside her. “She kinda has a point, Sara. You have changed.”

  She threw up her hands. “What, because I finally realized there wasn’t any point in talking if I didn’t have anything to say?”

  “That,” Zanna allowed. “You’re happier, though, so it balances out. I mean, you were pretty damn happy before, and whatever the hell you were on, being single and not giving two shits about it? Can I have some? Please?” Sara snorted. “And you seem more confident. If hanging out with Taylor’s what’s done it, I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

  Megan plopped down on her other side and bumped her shoulder. “What she said. Your mom will come around, if that sort of thing matters to you. And since when did you and Taylor become a thing? Because that’s a new development worthy of alcohol.”

  She groaned, threading her hands through her hair and pulling. “This ‘new development,’ as you call it, came about in the last couple of days. He only met my parents because he happened to be here when they showed up.”

  “Speaking of Taylor, where is he? Why isn’t he here?” Zanna craned her neck to check out the hallway.

  She shrugged. “Catching up on other stuff, I think. I’ll see him at work tomorrow.” She got to her feet and stuck her hands on her hips. “Can we paint now? Or are you two here to kibbutz while my shoulders die a slow, aching death? I want to get the first coat on the ceiling today.”

  They trooped into the living room, and she took up her position on the ladder, applying the blue painter’s tape to the window trim. “Meg? Could you kindly go back in and turn on the music you so rudely stopped before?”

/>   To the sounds of Aenema, they rolled on the paint, the warm brown more of a deep gold as it thinned and spread. The repetitive back and forth and the laughter of her two friends worked out the rest of her anger, leaving her calmer. She wanted Taylor here. He’d slip into this rhythm easily, shoot her quietly amused looks at as Zanna and Megan joked around. She nudged the small ache aside. She’d see him tomorrow. There was no need to call him today, and she doubted whatever trouble was brewing for his family was something that could be rectified in a few phone calls.

  The three of them eventually staggered out onto the front porch, high on paint fumes, the boards of the steps creaking as they thumped down on their butts. “Remind me again why I volunteered to help you,” Megan whined.

  “Because she offered to pay us in beer. And pizza. I do believe pizza was promised.” Zanna pulled off the ball cap she’d been using to protect her hair and rubbed her forehead. “Also, I’m never using a hat as a hair protector again. I’m sure I’ve got this red line on my forehead from it, and damn, it itches like crazy!”

  Leaning against a post, Sara studied the street, idly taking in the cars parked along the curbs. There was Zanna’s silver hatchback; she and Megan must have carpooled. She recognized the other cars she could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. If someone was watching her, they weren’t out there today. Drawing in a lungful of cold, damp air, she blew it out, shivering at the goose bumps popping up along her bare arms.

  Enough. She got up and rolled her shoulders, wincing as the muscles pulled. “I did promise beer and pizza. Up. Off yo ass. I’m hungry, and I’m not waiting.”

  * * *

  The spreadsheet in front of him blurred and solidified. He scrubbed his hands over his face and squinted at it again. He couldn’t get his head on straight today. Couldn’t find that place where he blocked everything out and tunneled into the job.

  Calling home had been a mistake. Ma had been several levels above hysterical. “Why’s that man threatening us after all these years? Never once said two words to us when you boys were all in the neighborhood and now he’s comin’ round like we owe him something,” she’d cried.

  After calming his mother down, he’d called Jamie back and demanded to know what the gang had been up to. A number of the old crew had gone down for felony crimes, sloppiness the old Tony wouldn’t have tolerated. Four of them ended up on trial for a string of bank robberies involving deadly weapons. Several more were doing terms for assault and other robbery charges, and five were serving various lengths for murder.

  The last ones were what got his attention. The Pretty Boys had always been discreet about murder and battery, the bodies disappearing and people walking into doors all over the place. “Tony’s losing it, man. Really, really losing it. Cops can’t tie him directly to anything, and the Feds are taking too damn long to build their case. His territory’s shrunk. Ma and Pop are underwater on their house. The second mortgage was a shitty idea.”

  He and Jamie had batted a few ideas around about how to keep their parents in the house and away from Tony and ended up with the same conclusion: Tony’d lost it and they’d be safer if they moved. Jamie had left it up to him to bring it up to their parents.

  It was a measure of how lost he felt that the knock on the door startled him. Sara had her arms crossed over her chest and wariness in her eyes. “You up for a drink tonight?”

  He’d missed her. He hadn’t seen her in a few days, and he suspected she didn’t know how to approach him.

  He didn’t want a drink. He wanted her. He’d never get her if he didn’t get his report finished. His fingers twitched in a “come here” gesture, and he pulled open the top drawer of his desk, searching for the spare keys he’d dropped in there.

  He closed his hand around them, suddenly realizing he was about to take a big step. None of the women he’d dated before had burrowed in deep enough to merit a key, and Sara had done it in a matter of months. Her tenacity, her sweetness, even her scowls tugged and pushed at parts of him he’d locked away because he’d convinced himself he’d never meet a woman strong enough to stick with him if his past caught up with him.

  She was smart; she’d see the gesture for what it was. And he knew she wouldn’t take the key if she wasn’t ready.

  Christ, he hoped she was ready.

  Keys dangling from his fingertips, he held them out. “I’m stuck here for another hour at least,” he said quietly. “I want you to be there when I get home.”

  She didn’t move to take them. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded and continued to hold them out. “I know what I’m asking.”

  The wariness didn’t dissipate, but she came around the desk and took the keys from him, laying her palm against his cheek as she bent to kiss him. “Me, too,” she whispered. Then she turned and left his office.

  Knowing Sara would be waiting for him when he got home shook off some of the edginess, and he managed to finish up in an hour and a half, shutting down before something else could come up to delay him longer.

  After a commute that took twice as long as usual, he let himself into his apartment and a warm, spicy scent greeted him. He tossed his coat over the back of the couch and found Sara at the stove. She must have stopped at home first, because she wasn’t wearing the sleek green trousers she’d had on earlier. The yoga pants she preferred to lounge around in stretched deliciously over the curves of her ass. He wanted to pick her up and cart her off to the bedroom, peeling those pants away. He wanted to hold her even more.

  He slipped his arms around her waist and she covered his hands with one of her own, the slight weight of her leaning on his chest a balm. “What are you making?”

  She reached forward and gave the frying pan a quick shake. “Chicken. You had it in the fridge. Potatoes.” She waved her hand at a pot on the back burner. “Mashed, unless you’ve got other ideas.” She turned in his arms, sliding her hands up his chest. “Comfort food. I thought you could use it.”

  He pulled her up, up on her toes, her arms around his neck. Instead of kissing her, he buried his face in her hair, soaking in the warmth of her. One of her hands stroked into his hair, and something inside him settled.

  She eased back. “Go on and sit. Dinner will be ready in about ten.”

  It was later, much later, lazing about on the couch, that they were able to talk. He laid his head on her breast as she told him about the visit she’d made to the police station Monday morning. “And before you growl about not telling you, it wasn’t a big deal.” Her fingers worked through his hair, and he left his head where it was, waiting to see what she’d say next. “Filing the protection order with Portland PD was more to cross my t’s and dot my i’s than anything else. I checked in with Detective Milan, too, and Sam’s complying with his parole terms.

  “I had my first Krav Maga class last night,” she continued. Stroke, stroke, the steady thump of her heart soothing him.

  “Krav Maga? Isn’t that some street fighting technique? You preparing for a cage match or something?” He worked his hand under the hem of her sweater and splayed it across her abdomen.

  “No cage match. Just preparedness. I hurt in places I didn’t know it was possible to hurt.” The conversation lapsed, and he had no idea how much time had passed when she spoke again. “Are they going to be all right?”

  He knew what she meant by the quiet question. “We’re working on getting them out of the neighborhood. It’s time they left anyway,” he said, rubbing her soft skin when she tensed. “A lot of their friends have moved away. The housing bust hit them hard, and the house isn’t worth nearly what they owe on the mortgage. Tony threatening them is the straw breaking the camel’s back, in a way. It’s not a quick process, even if they agree.”

  “No, it’s not.” More silence. “What are you going to do about Tony?”

  He had no fucking clue, and told her as much. “He’s out of his mind at this point. He has to have made a mistake, screwed up somehow. I want to believe the Feds will step i
n any day, but given their lack of movement in the past, it’s unlikely.”

  Fatigue from the last few days dragged on him, and what he wanted more than anything was to take Sara to bed and sleep. Sleep, holding her to him as though she could ward off the evil from his past. And maybe she could. With her, he was starting to think the impossible might not be so far out of reach.

  “Taylor?” Her slender fingers latched onto his hair and tugged. He lifted his head. “Take me to bed,” she whispered.

  His blood warmed at her demand, and he imagined a slow, drawn out climb, warmth without heat, desire banked instead of driving them faster. He slid off the couch and helped her to her feet, her brown eyes full of nerves. He brought her fingers to his lips. “As you wish.” He kissed the tips one by one, then walked with her to his bedroom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shadow cloaked the room. It would be easier to do this in the dark. Already she was searching for what she felt that morning when she’d woken with him in her bed. The frightening gentleness of being so steeped in him nothing else mattered. Tonight was the night to find out if she could handle it again, making love rather than blind animal fucking. She hoped so. She wanted it, wanted it badly. She wanted it with him.

  Their hands found each other, his going to her hair and the band holding it up. It fell away and he combed his fingers through the strands.

  Hers crept under the hem of his t-shirt, feathering over the skin of his lower back.

  Their mouths came together slowly. Tentatively. The kiss deepened, scooping her up and sweeping her along so her fingers dug into the muscles above his butt, swaying on her feet as she rose up and pressed closer. She couldn’t get close enough.

  Shirts off, fingers fumbling at the hooks of her bra, and she buried her face against his chest. He was always so sure. One of them needed to be tonight. One of them had to have the confidence that this was the direction they were supposed to be going, and instead they were standing still, afraid the tenderness would be their undoing.