Cary

by Jessica Gadziala

  “Oh, right. Well, maybe when Cary…”

  “Babe,” she cut me off. “You’re a free woman now. You don’t need a protection detail. Take some of the cash that has got to be stashed in Cary’s bag, and go spoil your dog.”

  “Really?” I asked, finding myself a mix of elated and completely terrified.

  I mean, I hadn’t gone anywhere by myself since I was still married. And even then, I’d never really felt free to buy anything I wanted. I always needed to run it by my ex-husband first.

  “Yes, really. I mean, I’ll be hanging here, so you don’t need to be worried or anything. But go shop. Get a taste of real freedom.”

  I didn’t really need much more encouragement than that.

  I grabbed the cash, then the puppy, and made my way down the stairs, and over to the pet store on the same street.

  That was where Cary found me what had to be almost two hours later.

  What can I say? It was so novel to me. To shop in general, but also to check out all the dog items. I mean there were hundreds of different collar options, rows and rows of treats, special bowls to slow down eating, crates and beds of every shape and size, and, well, I maybe picked up almost every single toy that the puppy showed any sort of interest in.

  “I know I should have asked first,” I said, wincing at him when he stopped at the end of the aisle, looking at me.

  He’d changed into an all-black outfit that made him look even sexier than usual, and his hair was still wet from the shower.

  What he didn’t look, though, was angry in any way.

  “Do you want him?”

  “I think I might die inside if you said you don’t like dogs,” I admitted, getting a smile out of him as he moved toward us.

  His arm went around me automatically, curling me into his side, and pressing a kiss to my temple.

  “We can’t have that, can we?” he asked. “I like dogs. I’ve just always lived at a clubhouse, so it wasn’t in the cards for me. He looks like he’s gonna be big,” Cary said, reaching into the cart to touch the puppy’s big paws with their little white spots. Like freckles on his otherwise all black coat.

  “He’s afraid of birds,” I informed him. “He jumped and cried when we went past the parakeets.”

  “Quite the guard dog, huh, bud?” Cary asked, rubbing his big head.

  I knew I would always be child-free in my life. And I’d never really had that little uterus squeeze thing when I saw a cute baby. But when Cary was loving on the puppy? Yeah, all the squeezes.

  “Do you have any name ideas?” I asked, watching as Cary mused that for a minute before turning to look down at me.

  “What about Kent?” he asked. “Like…”

  “Like Kentwood Penitentiary,” I said, feeling the smile pull at my lips.

  “Where we first, for lack of a better term, met.”

  It was perfect.

  He was perfect.

  Life, it seemed, might just end up perfect too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cary - 2 weeks

  “Baby, he’s not mad at you,” I said, trying like hell not to laugh.

  Because Abigail was absolutely fucking hysterical, curled up in a ball on the couch next to the dog, stroking his little snout and begging him to forgive her.

  “You don’t know that! He doesn’t understand that it was an accident. I can’t tell him I’m sorry,” she added, sniffling.

  She’d tossed her phone toward the couch, not realizing Kent was sleeping there, and whacked him on the head with it.

  He’d let out a little whimper.

  And that was all it took to make Abigail completely lose her shit.

  I didn’t want to tell her that there were sure to be many situations in the future when she accidentally stepped on him, bumped him, or hit him with phones or remotes. I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to help the situation.

  “I know. You had a hard day, and then you come home and mommy hits you in the head. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna get you a treat. Do you want a treat?”

  Kent’s hard day involved his first puppy training class where he was barked at and charged by a chihuahua with a Napoleon Complex. And then a walk home where a seagull flew off a bench post and startled him.

  I was starting to question A’s judgment if this puppy supposedly came from great guard dog genes.

  Not that we needed a guard dog.

  There was nothing left to fear from the cartels.

  Once word got out that Raúl was dead, A swept right in to take over this operation, which, in turn, made Abigail even safer than before. If anyone had been left who had continued loyalty to Raúl was… dealt with.

  It almost felt surreal that it was all over, that there was nothing else to worry about.

  Not that we hadn’t been through enough, but I guess since the original plan that involved going down to Mexico had been so complicated and risky that not having to do any of that but having the situation handled was hard to come to grips with.

  To be honest, I’d wanted more time with Raúl.

  I wanted to get him somewhere quiet.

  And then I wanted to spend hours, or days, giving him a taste of the terror and pain he’d inflicted on Abigail for years.

  Granted, I’d gotten some good damage in thanks to a tiled bathroom full of hard surfaces, but I’d been too aware of being not only in a semi-public place where strangers could overhear, but only a room away from Abigail who didn’t need to overhear that kind of violence either.

  It may not have been as satisfying as I’d wanted, but it was done. That was the most important part.

  It was done and she was free.

  To cry about accidentally tossing her phone on the dog.

  To have nothing else to worry about in her day than that.

  “Okay, you can have two. But don’t go telling your Aunt Andi on me, okay? It’s our little secret.”

  Abigail - 8 months

  It was strange how easily things just… fell into place.

  It seemed like there should have been a lot more drama following the demise of Raúl and his empire.

  I mean, to be fair, it could have been an all-out war going on in Mexico for all I knew, but that was Andres’s problem, and no longer had anything to do with us.

  It was all just… over.

  Six and a half years of my life. All that fear, pain, uncertainty, and hopelessness that seemed never-ending.

  It was all over.

  All because of one man.

  One man I’d gotten a wild hair to write while he was in prison many years before.

  I’d had a crisis of faith for many years. But as the weeks stretched on, it seemed like the whole thing was less and less like happenstance, and more and more like pieces in a big design.

  What were the chances that I ended up writing to the one man who would have the ability and connections to save me from the man who’d tormented me for years?

  And it wasn’t just Cary, either.

  It was the perfect combination of Cary and Chris from Hailstorm and Andres and Hope. And, really, all the others who’d been involved, who’d helped.

  And all those pieces that brought those people together to this one town, to make connections with one another before I even came into the picture, well, I don’t know, it just seemed too perfect to be anything other than by design.

  Maybe all the terrible things in the world were due to the evil so many people harbor in their hearts. But the good? Maybe that was some divine way of trying to make everything better.

  I mean, I wasn’t saying I was going to fall back on all my old beliefs. I never wanted to put my faith to rest in a system that was built on shame and fear.

  But it felt good to have some faith in the universe again, in something possibly bigger than myself.

  Even if it never became more than that. Just a little faith.

  It was the way Cary approached it too. He believed in “something” and tried not to do anything to deliberately hurt s
omeone who hadn’t hurt him first. Other than that, he said it brought more stress than peace to his life.

  I liked that.

  That said, there was very little about Cary that I didn’t like.

  Okay, his penchant for putting spinach in literally anything he cooked? That could get a bit absurd. Just let me enjoy my plain pasta sauce in peace. But I also had to appreciate why he was doing it. He took his health seriously. And because I was important to him, he took mine seriously too. So while he encouraged me to eat two pounds of pasta by myself because he knew I was still trying to put on weight, he wanted to make sure I got some vitamins in me as well.

  It was sweet.

  “I know, buddy,” I said, listening to Kent whine at the window because I’d put up window boxes in the spring and a small family of nuthatches had moved in to nest.

  I, of course, thought it was sweet.

  But Kent saw it as an enemy invasion.

  “They’ll be gone in a few weeks,” I assured him, patting his giant head. He was growing too fast. I suddenly understood why Andres had so many dogs. The puppy stage was so cute, yet fleeting. “Do you want to go see Uncle Dezi and Lola?” I asked, watching as he flew off the couch to zoomie around the room for a minute before landing at the front door, paws down, tail-end up, waiting for me to get the leash.

  Because he was in love with Dezi’s little Lola.

  Who wanted absolutely nothing to do with his big, clumsy self.

  That didn’t deter him, though. He was sure that one day, he might sway her.

  It wasn’t a short walk to the clubhouse, but it was a nice day, and the novelty of just being allowed to walk out the front door and head wherever I wanted hadn’t quite worn out yet.

  A part of me hoped it never would, that I would always appreciate such a little thing because it made it all the more enjoyable to me.

  Navesink Bank had, slowly but surely, become home. It had opened its arms wide and pulled me in, asking me where the hell I had been, begging me never to leave.

  I had the distinct feeling that I never would.

  I mean, maybe for little vacations here and there.

  But always to come back.

  To get embraced by this crazy, wild, vast, yet close-knit place.

  “Get the fuck out of my face,” Voss growled as soon as I walked in the front doors of the clubhouse.

  “Not my fault you’re in my way, fucker,” Dezi said back with a lot less heat.

  Just another day in the clubhouse.

  The two of them, I concluded, were like brothers who could never get along, but knew they could count on each other if they needed help.

  “Boys,” I scolded, letting Kent off his leash to barrel into the room, making a bee-line for Lola in her little baby pink circle bed, getting so excited that he slid in to her side, then immediately rolled onto his back, showing her his belly while she stared at him with dead eyes like she was wholly unimpressed by his display. “Be nice,” I added, smiling when Voss scoffed and immediately walked out of the room. “Kent wanted to come see the ice queen,” I told Dezi.

  “She’s keeping her options open,” Dezi declared. “Kent doesn’t even have a job. And he’s afraid of birds. He’s not quite the alpha she sees herself with in the future.”

  You had to love Dezi.

  “He will win her over eventually,” I told him as Kent snuck a little lick in.

  “So did you sign up for all your classes?” Dezi asked, dropping down onto one of the bar stools.

  “I did,” I agreed, smiling.

  It was terrifying. Especially for someone who hadn’t even attended a typical public school growing up.

  College was different, I assured myself.

  It was more casual.

  Still, I had to admit, I was a mix of excited and absolutely terrified. Maybe especially so since I was going to go so much older than the typical student.

  And I had so far to go.

  But I had more than half my life ahead of me.

  “You going to try to head-shrink me now?” Dezi asked, smirking at me.

  “Oh, Dezi, I don’t think I will ever be skilled enough to untangle that web you have going on up there,” I said, patting the top of his head.

  “At least you recognize that about yourself,” he said, shooting me a wink.

  Yes, I’d decided to go to school to become a therapist.

  I had Lo and her daughter Chris to thank for that. They were the ones who had first brought me with them to drop off supplies at the women’s shelter.

  I’d spent the entire day there, getting to know some of the women and children, learning their stories, seeing so much of myself in their trauma.

  It was then that I decided to start seeking therapy myself. Sure, I had to leave out key details, but I was able to start talking about it enough to begin the work of healing.

  It was my therapist who had first encouraged me to pursue my degree if I felt so “pulled” to do so, to try to help other women who had been through something similar.

  I hadn’t said anything for weeks.

  Until it became the dominant thought in my head when I woke up, and what I was thinking about before I went to sleep.

  That was when I floated the idea to Cary who couldn’t have been more encouraging.

  Because, well, that was just how Cary was.

  He’d been very clear from the beginning that I didn’t need to work. That if I wanted to be a stay-at-home dog mom, then he was perfectly happy with that situation. But that if I found something that lit a fire under me, that I was passionate about, then that was what I should pursue. Not for the money, but for the fulfillment.

  That was what I truly believed working with survivors of domestic violence would be for me.

  Fulfilling.

  So I was charging forward. With all my fear and all my doubts, but a lot of hope as well.

  Maybe one day, I could help other women like the women in the “girls club” had helped me, several of whom had come from terrible situations as well.

  Because while a lot of people could empathize with what you’ve been through—and that was lovely—it was something very different to have someone who relates to what you endured, who had struggled to find themselves and their way up after getting free.

  I wanted to be that person for other women. But also with an education toolbox to whip out when the situation called for it, full of insights and the right things to say.

  Sure, it was going to be a good six years of my life before I got there. But until then, I was volunteering at the women’s shelter.

  And, well, enjoying my life.

  Getting used to the town.

  Hanging out with the princesses.

  Going to self-defense classes.

  Learning to become a part of the Henchmen family

  And, of course, loving and being loved by Cary.

  “Hey, love,” Cary said, coming in from the basement, eyes widening to see me. “I didn’t know you were dropping by.”

  “Kent needed to see his girlfriend,” I told him, waving over to where Kent had stubbornly placed his giant head on Lola’s tiny foot, and promptly pretended to act like he was asleep so he didn’t have to move. “And I’m always happy to see you,” I added as he came up to me, wrapping his arms around me, and drawing me close.

  “It has been a whole five hours,” he agreed, voice grave.

  “I practically forgot what you looked like,” I agreed, getting a low chuckle out of him before he sealed his lips over mine.

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Cary asked, nipping my lower lip. “Want to get the full picture?” he murmured, voice velvet.

  “Always,” I agreed, letting him take my hand and drag me down the hall to his bedroom.

  “You’re just going to trust me with your child?” Dezi asked. “Interesting choice,” he added as we disappeared into the bedroom.

  We barely got the door closed before Cary’s hands were yanking at my clothes, draggin
g my pants and panties down my legs, then dropping down in front of me. He reached for my leg, drawing it over his shoulder, then closing his mouth over my sex.

  He was always enthusiastic when he went down on me, like he was a starving man, and I was the best feast he could imagine.

  My hands slammed down on the top of his head, holding on as he expertly drove me up with his tongue and lips then, as I got closer and closer, his fingers inside me.

  “No!” I cried when, at the last possible second, he yanked away, looking up at me with self-satisfied eyes, knowing how close I had been.

  He’d never made me wait before. He hadn’t ever been a man to tease and deny. If anything, he seemed to enjoy seeing how many orgasms he could give me during a session.

  A low chuckle moved through him as he got back to his feet, reaching down to draw my shirt up, then reaching around me to work my bra free.

  His hands reached for mine, pulling me with him as he walked backward toward the bed.

  He lowered himself down, but held me at arm’s length, his hungry gaze moving over me.

  He did this a lot. Especially since the many months of being fed high-calorie and high-fat meals had finally packed on my missing pounds. And then some.

  I constantly caught him looking at me, like he couldn’t get enough of me since my bones sank down below some healthy padding.

  He was always running his hands over me too, getting to know the new curves, letting me know how much he appreciated them.

  I’d always been shy about my nudity during my marriage. Then, with Raúl, my nakedness had become a source of shame and humiliation.

  It was unexpectedly comfortable to be bare with Cary, to be exposed and vulnerable, because I knew he would appreciate it and show me how much he loved it.

  There was so much empowerment in that.

  So much, in fact, that I dropped one of his hands, but used the other to do a slow, sexy spin. My sex clenched hard as a low growl of approval moved through him before I finished the turn.

  The heat in his gaze intensified as I lowered myself down in front of him, running my hands up his thighs, then working his pants free, and pulling out his straining cock, and closing my mouth around him.