Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  That scares the shit out of me.

  On occasion I receive a letter that reminds me of a different man. The man he was before he became so twisted up with hate he didn’t know how to do anything but lash out. My childhood memories are nothing close to pleasant. I can’t lie. But there was a hopeful point in my life. A very small period of time where everything was . . . okay, and I was full of innocence. Ignorant innocence, I suppose, but that’s better than the cold, stark reality.

  God, I’ve really lost it. Here I am with the girl of my dreams and I’m wasting my opportunity. The minutes are just ticking by. Tick, tick, tick, and soon the girl who thinks I saved her because I’m some sort of good citizen rescuing lost females with a single bound will realize I’m an idiot who can’t fucking speak. And she’ll shrug her shoulders, get into her car, and take off.

  Never to be seen again. Well. I may be watching her like some sort of fucked-up jerk who can’t figure out what he wants, but I want this. The closeness, the chance to spend time with her, talk to her, touch her . . .

  I knock myself out of the memories, out of my yearnings, and focus on her.

  “So. What brought you out here today?” I ask.

  She peers up at me for the briefest moment, wariness in her eyes. “I, uh, just needed to get out of the house.”

  She’s lying. But I’m not about to challenge her.

  “What about you?” she asks. I see the curiosity in her gaze and I like it. I want her curious.

  I need her interested.

  Pleasure blooms in my chest despite my brain scrambling for an answer. “I wanted to check out the beach. It’s one of my favorite spots.”

  She turns her head west, toward the ocean, and shields her eyes with her hand, effectively hiding her eyebrows completely. The sun is bright, reflecting off the water, and she squints against the glare. “It’s definitely beautiful today.”

  “The weather’s perfect,” I add and she nods, flashing me a brief smile as we continue walking.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. Talking to her. Getting to know her. It’s wrong. Twisted. Being honest with her would be best, but how do I bring that up in casual conversation?

  Oh hey, want to know who I really am?

  Yeah. I can’t do it. If I continue on with this charade, with this pile of lies that will only grow taller, I’ll never find a way to come clean.

  This is the last time you’ll talk to her. You got what you wanted—a chance to look her straight in the eye and see that she’s all right. Even better? You rescued her. You did your job. Now you walk away. Escort her to her car and end it now.

  We exit the park within minutes and I let her steer the course, pretending I don’t know where she’s parked. We make small talk, discussing mindless topics like the weather, the way the town hasn’t really changed in years. She asks me if I live here and I say yes. I ask her if she lives here and she changes the subject, points out a dolphin jumping out in the ocean.

  We stare at it for a moment, transfixed. I steal a glance at her, see the way she’s watching the sleek gray dolphin leap in the water, her eyes wide, her rosebud lips parted. Damn, she’s pretty. The urge to grab my phone and snap a photo of her at this exact moment is strong, but I know she’d freak.

  So I’ll have to settle with etching her expression in my memory instead.

  “My car is close.” She smiles and turns to face me. “Just right there.” She waves behind her and I look, knowing exactly which vehicle is hers, but again, I’m not supposed to. “Thank you again. For . . . everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say solemnly, dread filling my gut and making me feel sick. This can’t be it. I can’t . . . I can’t let her go like this. Not with a “thank you and it’s been real but I’ll never see you again.”

  Fuck, I can’t do it.

  She’s turning away from me. Starting toward her car. I watch her walk, drink in her lithe figure, the subtle sway of her hips. She’s thin. I don’t know if she eats much and I’m suddenly overcome with the need to feed her. Take care of her.

  “Hey,” I call and she pauses, turning to look at me with curiosity in her dark blue eyes. “Uh, are you doing anything right now?”

  She contemplates my question, her delicate brows scrunching downward, her teeth sinking into her lower lip for a brief moment. “I should probably head on home. It’s getting late.”

  “Oh.” I nod, swallow. Pray I don’t fuck this up. “I was wondering . . .”

  Her face—there’s no other words for it, it lights up. Like she wants me to ask. “Wondering what?”

  “If you wanted to have a cup of coffee with me. Maybe get something to eat.” I cock my head, stuff my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. Trying for unassuming. I don’t want to push.

  But I can’t let her walk away from me. Not yet.

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah.” I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be . . .”

  “I have nowhere to be. Nowhere to go but home,” she says, a rush of words that make her clamp her lips shut the moment they escape her, as if she didn’t want to admit that.

  “There’s a little coffeehouse just up the street. We could walk there.” I pause. “They have a great view of the ocean.”

  The smile on her face is nothing short of brilliant. “Okay. Yes. I’d love to.”

  Despite my instincts screaming at me in protest, I move forward and she falls into step beside me, just like before, when I was someone else and so was she.

  As if we were meant to be.

  She was tired. And whiny. Her whimpers and constant sniffling was getting on my nerves, but I dealt with it. How could I be mad when she’d already suffered so much? My father chained her up to the wall like an animal. Something I could still hardly comprehend.

  How many others had there been? That was the part I didn’t like to think about too much. But it lingered in my mind always, pounding an incessant question through my blood.

  How many? How many?

  I didn’t want to know.

  Yet I had to know.

  Saving this one was all I could do. I didn’t know about the others. From the things Katie had said, the hints my father had given her, I knew without a doubt kidnapping Katie wasn’t his first attempt. He had experience. He almost killed her. He’d raped her repeatedly. She never said exactly what he did to her beyond mentioning the choking incident, but I’d seen the bruises on the inside of her thighs, black and purple and huge. I could only imagine him wrenching her legs apart just before he . . .

  “Are we there yet?” she asked for about the fiftieth time, sounding like every kid they make fun of on TV. Reminding me of Bart and Lisa from The Simpsons. There was an episode I watched where the whole family was going on vacation and that’s all they said, over and over.

  Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

  Until Homer finally screamed at them and they reluctantly shut up.

  “Almost,” I said, my rote answer. So tired of her asking that. But I was thankful for the interruption of my thoughts. I don’t want to envision what he did to her. Bad enough I saw the lingering evidence.

  “I’m so sore. I don’t know if I can walk any farther.” Her voice trailed off, so weak and pitiful, and I turned around to see her standing there, her body hunched over, my sweatshirt swallowing her up, making her look incredibly small.

  “Katie,” I started and she shook her head, closing her eyes as the tears slid down her cheeks.

  “I can’t do it, Will. My feet hurt. My legs. My whole body.” The tears were really falling now, multiple little tracks bisecting each other on her dirty face as the sobs started to rack her shoulders. “I don’t want to go on. I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  I went to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. Not too rough, though. I didn’t want to make things worse. But she needed to get on board with the plan. “Come on. Don’t give up on me now. You
can do this.”

  She cracked open her eyes and peered up at me. “Tell me the truth. How far is the police station?”

  I heaved a big sigh and turned my head to stare out at the traffic passing us by. “Almost a mile,” I muttered.

  “How many miles have we already walked?” She sniffed and it turned into a hiccup. I hated seeing her cry. It made me feel strange emotions I couldn’t describe and wasn’t comfortable with.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Two? Maybe three?”

  “It feels like twenty.” She wavered in my grip, like her legs were about to give out on her, and I shook her again, causing her head to lift so her gaze met mine. “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “You’re strong but I’m not.”

  “You’re strong, too.” I slid my hands over her shoulders and pulled her into me, going on pure instinct. I wanted to offer her comfort. I wanted her to feel safe with me and when she went willingly, folding her arms in front of her chest, her forehead landing on my shoulder, it felt . . . good. Her absolute trust in me made me feel like I could do anything for her.

  As I slid my arms around her and held her close, I whispered against her hair, “Just a little while longer, Katie. Do it for me, okay?”

  She nodded, the barest movement of her head, her body going limp against mine, and I gathered her as close as I could, the sweatshirt bunching between us. I willed some of my strength into her, needing her to pull it together. We were so close and I couldn’t have her give up before we got there.

  “Okay,” she whispered, turning her head as she spoke, and I swore I felt her damp mouth move against my neck. “Just—promise me you’ll walk into the police station with me.”

  I stiffened. That was the last thing I wanted to do. “I can’t promise you that.”

  Katie lifted her head up to stare at me. “Why not?”

  “I have to go back home.” The words sounded lame, but it was the only excuse I had.

  She studied me as if she were ready to call bullshit. Not that I could imagine her saying the word. “Go back to what? Him? Your father? Are you going to warn him that you let me go? Then the two of you can go on the run or whatever?”

  “Hell no,” I said vehemently. “I’m not telling him shit.”

  “Then why go back there? And to what? Your life can’t be that good, can it? He’s a monster, Will.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper, her eyes wide and full of fear. “Does he hurt you?”

  I remained stiff, even my lips immobile. I couldn’t admit to her my darkest secrets.

  “Does he?” she probed as she disentangled herself from my grip. Like I might be so disgusting she could catch a disease from me if she stood too close. I guessed I deserved that. I’m his son, after all. “Tell me.”

  “He doesn’t hurt me,” I mumbled, tearing my gaze from hers so I could stare at the ground. I could feel her watching me, her gaze moving over me from my head to my toes and everywhere in between. I could only imagine her wondering exactly what he did to me. How he hurt me. I hadn’t felt his fists in a while, but he used to smack me where no one would notice. In the ribs, my back, my stomach. When I was nine he had a habit of pinching my inner thighs, twisting the skin until I yelped and cried and screamed, begging him to stop. Leaving ugly purplish bruises there that seemed to fill him with satisfaction when he’d notice them later on.

  Those same wounds he used to give me reminded me of the bruises on Katie’s thighs.

  “You’re lying.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact, and I felt like a shit for not coming clean. But what could I say? How could I reveal to her what he did to me? What he forced me to do, what he made me watch? I hated it, was ashamed of him and what he did.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I took her hand and tugged on it, indicating that I wanted her to start walking. She did so, reluctantly, the expression on her face nothing short of frustration. Petulant.

  “You can’t keep it inside you forever, you know,” she said as we headed down the sidewalk, me maintaining a slow pace so she could keep up. She practically walked on tiptoes, wincing with every step, and I considered picking her up and hauling her in my arms the rest of the way but decided I’d better not.

  “Are you my counselor now? What do you know about life? How old are you, anyway?”

  She lifted her chin, somehow looking dignified despite the matted hair, tearstained cheeks, purple bruised smudges on either side of her neck, and the giant sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her whole. “Almost thirteen.”

  Meaning she was fucking twelve. Twelve. God, my father was disgusting.

  “You don’t know shit,” I muttered, immediately pissed at myself for talking to her like that. I was supposed to be the one who saved her. I needed to watch my mouth.

  “I know enough to tell you it’s hopeless, going back there, going back to him.” She squeezed my hand, reminding me that I hadn’t let hers go. Our fingers were linked, palms pressed together, and I liked it. Holding on to her like this, despite my sweating hand, made me feel good. Safe. “Come into the police station with me.”

  I kept walking, stifling the groan of frustration that I wanted to let fly. She was still young. Probably sheltered, not so innocent anymore but enough so that she believed the world could still be inherently good. No bad intentions allowed. She had parents to go back to, who wanted her. A safe home, a place where she felt loved and supported.

  Me? I had nothing. No options. A father who kidnapped and raped little girls for sport and a mother who abandoned me long, long ago. “They’ll just put me in a foster home.”

  “Wouldn’t that be better than being with him?”

  What was that old saying? The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t? How messed up was that?

  But that was my life in a nutshell.

  When I didn’t say anything she continued. “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?” I sounded hostile and I pressed my lips together, fighting tears. Fucking tears. For a woman who ditched me the first moment she got a chance. I’ll probably end up having serious mommy issues when I’m older, swear to fucking God.

  “Where is she?”

  “Not a part of my life.” That was all I wanted to say. I sent Katie a look, one that said no more questions, and I was fairly certain she got the hint.

  We came upon a red light and waited for it to change so we could cross the street. The police station was close by, on the street we were about to approach, and we’d need to turn right once we crossed. A few more blocks and we’d be there.

  A few more blocks until I let go of Katie forever.

  I accept my vanilla latte and watch him from across the table, marveling yet again at his good looks, at the fact that he asked me to go for coffee with him and I accepted. We’re on some sort of weird date—I can’t imagine calling it anything else—and he’d instigated it. Meaning he wanted to continue spending time with me.

  Me. Katherine Watts. Poor, pitiful Katie.

  I didn’t know what to make of it.

  As usual, I ran through the gamut of possible explanations. He’s really a reporter. He knows exactly who I am and is trying to get close to me. My new favorite theory—he was sent by Mom and Brenna to trip me up. As a test to see if I’d be dumb enough to fall for his tricks.

  If these theories are wrong and he doesn’t know who I really am, as soon as he finds out he’ll bolt. Not that I could blame him. I’m not easy. My past is difficult. Who wants to be with a girl who was repeatedly raped and beaten at the age of twelve, only to never allow herself to be touched by another man again? Who wants to follow that up?

  No one, that’s who. Not even this guy, not if he’s normal. Any guy my age or close to it would cut and run.

  We’d stood in line together, me checking the giant chalkboard menu that hung on the wall behind the front counter. Ethan made a few recommendations, letting me know what he planned on ordering, and once I made my decision, he told me to go cla
im the lone empty table in front of the window overlooking the Pacific before someone else snagged it.

  When I offered money to pay for my drink, he looked offended.

  I scurried over to the tiny table and settled in a chair, staring at the wide blanket of blue topped with whitecaps. The wind was vicious, whipping the ocean into a froth of choppy waves, and there weren’t many boats out there. Most of them had already come in for the day.

  Staring at the ocean could sustain me for only so long and I tilted my head, checking out Ethan as discreetly as possible while he stood patiently in the long line. The place was busy, the interior quaint, with exposed brick walls and rough-hewn wood planks. The glass case gleamed beneath the lights, full of delicious-looking pastries and cookies, and a tray of chocolate cupcakes topped high with thick vanilla frosting that looked extra tempting. But I wasn’t hungry and besides, I was too nervous to eat.

  Two women passed by, heading toward the doorway, and they blatantly checked out Ethan, who was completely oblivious considering his back was to them. I watched as they did a slow perusal of his backside, the two of them falling into fits of giggles before they hurried out of the coffee shop.

  I couldn’t help but look at his backside, too. The first time I’d ever done something like this. The dark jeans he wore were loose but not baggy, so I could make out his butt beneath the denim. It had a nice shape. What impressed me the most, though, were those shoulders. They were so broad. Capable looking. As if he could fight wars and ward off evil monsters all while I clung to his side.

  A ridiculous fantasy, but one I couldn’t help but entertain.

  He smiled pleasantly at the cashier and handed her a twenty, nodding his thank-you when she gave him back his change. He slipped the loose bills into a slim black leather wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, striding over to the other counter where the drinks were delivered. I watched him the entire time, my elbow propped on the table, chin resting on my curled fist. He didn’t notice, and I was glad because it allowed me to study him unabashedly.