Woke

by Peggy Jaeger

  “Can I read what’s in that? In those?” I pointed to the others. “The ones from my friends and the people who were at the club that night?”

  “I thought you might want to. It’s a lot to go over. From an investigative aspect there’s nothing in there that helped us. Maybe if you read through them something will, I don’t know, spark a memory or seem out of context with something you know.”

  Noting the time on my watch, I asked, “Can I bring them with me? It’s getting late and I think I’d like to go over them alone.”

  Ramon nodded and stood. “These are all copies, so you can take them. I’ll get you something to carry them in.”

  The banker’s boxes were crammed full with other files and papers. I reached into one and flipped through it. Medical statements was written across the front flap of one file. Another read Phone data.

  Ramon came back with a paper shopping bag from a local grocery.

  “I always save these,” he said, shoving the files into it. “Now I know why.”

  “An awful lot of work went into this…my…case.” I indicated the filled boxes.

  “And yet we still never found out what really happened.” He handed me the bag.

  “Thank you for allowing me to read through these.”

  “Call me if you have any questions or if something doesn’t read right to you. You knew most of these people and that’s an advantage I didn’t have.”

  His implication wasn’t lost on me. Had one of my supposed friends lied when questioned? Or had someone known something and omitted mentioning it?

  Back in the car and headed home, Murphy asked, “Did you find what you were looking for, Miss?”

  “I’m not sure,” I told him, taking in his worried expression in the rearview mirror. “We’ll see.”

  “Your mother texted me just before you finished up with the detective. She wanted to know where you were and when I was going to bring you home.”

  “And you told her, what?”

  “You were just finishing up a little errand and we were headed home shortly.” His eyes flicked my way again in the mirror. “I hate lying to her.”

  “I know. And I promise, I’ll tell her. I just need to figure out the best way to do it.”

  “The truth always works.”

  That’s what I was hoping to find in the interview files. The truth.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m listening,” Cade told me.

  Seated across from one another on his lengthy couch, I fiddled with the glass of wine he’d given me, not really wanting it, but knowing I needed something to hold on to for support and to force my hands to keep calm.

  I took a breath and then focused on his face.

  “You look so serious,” he said. “And sad.”

  I shrugged. “Not sad. Maybe just resigned.”

  I waited a beat.

  “Something happened to me when I was younger. I was…sick, for a long time.”

  “Define sick. Cancer? An accident?”

  “I was in a coma. For ten years.”

  His face didn’t register a thing at my words. He merely said, “Go on.”

  “The reasons for it happening are…not something I want to discuss, just know it happened, okay?”

  His head bobbed once.

  “I don’t know what, if anything, you know about long term coma patients, but the gist is that you’re not in control of anything going on in your body. You brain is…asleep, for lack of better word, and can’t control stuff that it naturally controls.”

  “Like?”

  “Breathing. Eating. Organ control and function. Movement. I was on a ventilator for almost four years before it was removed and I was able to breathe on my own again. This scar,” I opened the collar of my shirt to show him the two-inch line running across the notch at my neck, “is from a tube that was inserted into my windpipe, my trachea, to allow air to move into my lungs because my brain forgot how to breathe for me.”

  His gaze dipped to the area I showed him. When he settled back on me, he nodded again.

  “I was unable to eat normally because I was asleep, so I had another tube placed in my stomach for nutrition to be delivered straight into my body, here.” I pointed to the area just under my left breast and an inch from my bellybutton. “From being on bed rest for ten years, my circulation was impaired so I developed what are called pressure sores from staying in one position for too long. A few of them got infected and had to be surgically repaired. I was left with what look like divots on my hips, lower back and one under my right shoulder blade. I even have a bald spot on the back of my head.”

  “It’s not noticeable,” he said.

  “The wonders of hair styling.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted.

  “At one point, I think it was around year five according to my mother, something went haywire in my digestive system and I had to have my gall bladder and appendix removed. It should have been done laparoscopically, but there were complications, so they had to go in the old school way to remove them both.” I pointed now to the areas on my abdomen where the only reminiscences of the organs were the scars left in their wake.

  I went on to detail the areas where the tape from long-term catheters and intravenous lines and blood infusions had sloughed my skin, leaving behind discolorations and irregular skin tags.

  “Since my body was unable to signal to me whether or not I was cold or hot, there were times I had raging fevers from urinary tract infections that no one spotted for a while. I think I’ve had every antibiotic on the planet at one time or another.”

  He took a sip of his wine then shook his head.

  “When I finally woke up all my muscles were in various stages of atrophy despite the round the clock physical therapy my parents paid for. I had no tone, no strength at all. I had to learn how to do everything all over again. It was like being an adult trapped in a baby’s body. I couldn’t walk, sit upright without help, I couldn’t move my arms, legs, hands. I couldn’t do anything for myself, personal care-wise, for the first two years.”

  “How long have you been…awake, I guess is what it’s called?”

  I nodded. “Five years. I woke up almost to the day I slipped into the coma.”

  “So you’ve accomplished all this,” he waved a hand over me from head to toe, “In just three years? That’s amazing.”

  “That’s determination and the financial means to employ the best physical, occupational, and mental therapists in the country. My mother spared no expense.”

  “It’s paid off.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What about…no, never mind.”

  “You might as well ask whatever it is. You know the worst of it now.”

  “What about mentally? Did you have to relearn how to read, write, do math? Were your thinking skills damaged at all?”

  “No. My cognition was fully intact, which is a miracle in itself. I couldn’t write, of course, because I couldn’t hold a pen, but that was fixed with daily occupational therapy. The only deficit I have is that I tend to get tired quickly, which is why I’ve been trying to up my endurance with running. I’ve already done a half marathon and it didn’t kill me, thank goodness. Working toward a physically taxing marathon is the final step in my goal for recovery. Once I accomplish that I’ll really feel, well, cured.”

  Cade stared across the length of the couch at me, the wine glass still in his hand. It was so difficult to decipher what he was thinking because his face was expressionless.

  “Are all these scars you’ve told me about the reason you routinely wear long sleeves and pants?”

  I nodded and gave him mental points for being so observant.

  “I wondered when we went running this morning why you didn’t wear something, I don’t know, less warm, like a tank top or even just a sports bra and shorts.”

  “I’m used to what I look like when I’m not covered, but it can be…scary and off-putting to people who haven’t seen my scars o
r know about them.”

  “Plus I imagine you don’t really want to explain their cause every time someone asks about them.”

  The man certainly was racking up points today for understanding.

  His gaze took a slow tour across my face, his eyes piercing. An uncomfortable silence bloomed between us and I felt my heart start to speed up, my hands grow a bit clammy. I gripped the wine glass so tightly I was afraid it would snap.

  The continued silence told me everything I needed to know about how my confession had landed. I could practically hear Cade’s brain working as he tried to figure out a way to end whatever was starting between us. I’m sure good manners had him devising something that wouldn’t sound too insulting, but would let him off the hook. I’d known his wanting nothing further to do with me was a possibility when I started explaining – a strong one – but you always have a little bit of hope you’ll be wrong, you know?

  Apparently I wasn’t.

  The visible scars weren’t something he wanted to deal with. One small solace was that I hadn’t shared the invisible ones as well. Those I habitually kept to myself. Even my therapist didn’t know about most of them.

  I put the glass of wine on the coffee table and stood. I was dying a little on the inside but I was my mother’s daughter when all was said and done, and would never show another person the hurt swirling within me.

  “I’ll call my driver.” I slipped my phone from my pocket.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to bother yours again. Murphy can come and pick me up. He’s used to being on call for me.”

  Cade put his glass down on the table next to mine and stood. He closed the space between us before I could open the screen and laid a hand over my phone, barring me from typing.

  “I meant why are you leaving?”

  My eyes narrowed up at him and I could feel heat slide up my neck. “I would think it’s obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  “You’re really going to make me say the words out loud, Cade? Say now that you know about what I look like under my clothing you’ve changed your mind about…” I hated how my voice broke, as the tears I wanted to hold in threatened to disregard me.

  “That’s just…cruel.”

  He pried my phone from my hand and tossed it on the couch. Through the film of building tears I watched as his expression changed from confused to stormy.

  “You think just because you’ve told me about your scars that I don’t want to make love to you any more? That, what? Knowing about them has turned me off in some way? That I’ll be repulsed by them?”

  The sob I was trying to hide made itself known in the most embarrassing way.

  “Aurora, that’s an insult not only to me, but to yourself.” He wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me straight up against his body. “Do you really think so little of yourself that your physical”—he lifted a shoulder and shook his head—“issues would turn me off to wanting to be with you?”

  Because that was the truth, I nodded. The force let a few tears spill down my cheeks.

  Cade’s nostrils flared and his chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath thick with emotion.

  “You are not your scars. You are so much more than that, Aurora. I don’t care what you look like under your clothes. I care about you. I want you.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying.” His grip tightened, the hurt in his eyes replacing the anger as he asked, “Do you honestly believe I’m the type of man to care more about what you look like than the person you are? You don’t give me enough credit and you definitely don’t give any to yourself if you believe that.”

  I had, but the anger swimming in his eyes tinged with what I took for pain was screaming that I might be wrong.

  “I’ll admit when I first bumped into you I was attracted to you, your face, yes, and your gorgeous hair. Your beautiful smile. I admit I’ve wanted you since that first time,” he said. “At the auction, when we had lunch, even running in the park today, all I could think of was how happy I was being with you and how much I wanted to lose myself in you. Of wanting to give us both as much pleasure as we could stand. And then doing it again.”

  This time when my neck and cheeks flushed with heat it was from desire, not embarrassment.

  “I was thrilled you agreed to come home with me. I still am, despite you thinking what you’ve shared will make me want you any less. It doesn’t. In fact, I want you more. Just knowing what you’ve gone through and survived, how strong you are and yet so vulnerable, amazes me.”

  His jaw set, determination now flew across his eyes.

  “Maybe this will convince you I’m telling the truth.”

  I didn’t have time to think, to breathe. Without warning, Cade lifted me up and fused his mouth to mine. I tasted anger, sharp and cold, mixed with longing so hot my lips scorched.

  He broke the kiss to haul me up in his arms as if I weighed no more than a breath of air.

  My arms sought purchase around his neck while he carried me the length of the apartment and stopped in what must have been his bedroom. He let me stand upright and then looked me straight in the eye as he cupped my jaw and ran his thumbs across my inflamed cheeks.

  “The question isn’t if I want you, Aurora, because there’s no doubt I do. The real question is, do you want me?”

  Decisions can be agonized over or made in a heartbeat once you make up your mind, once you know what you really want.

  I could have given him his words back because there was no doubt in my mind that I did. Kincade Enright was the first man in what seemed like an eternity that I wanted to give myself to, lose myself with, wholeheartedly and completely. To forget everything that had ever happened to me and to start anew, fresh, with this man, at this moment.

  The fact he was giving me the control of what happened next was dumbfounding and went a long way in making me believe his words were true.

  This time, when tears had me swallowing my emotions, it wasn’t because I was hurt by possible rejection, but humbled by acceptance.

  With my eyes focused on his, I dragged my hands up and around his shoulders, lifted up on my toes and pressed the length of my body against his. I was rewarded when the tension left his face and his hands instantly cuddled around my back. His eyes were locked on mine, his question still drifting there at their surface.

  I swallowed again, mentally braced myself, and took a leap of absolute faith.

  “I want you so much I can’t breathe.”

  That darling, charming sexy half-grin that sent my insides pulsing formed on his mouth again right before he kissed me.

  Sweet and tender soon changed into raw and sizzling. My entire body shook and pulsed with so much pent up lust and need I grew dizzy from the scope of it.

  Cade lifted me once again, our lips never breaking apart as be brought us to his massive bed. I sank down into it, delighting in its soft as a cloud cushy-ness when he plopped me in the middle of it, all the while kissing me as if his life depended on it.

  When he came up for air, a look so filled with promise sailed across his hooded gaze I almost came on the spot.

  “Take this off,” I commanded, slapping at his shirt. “I need to see you. I want to touch you.”

  With one hand and that cocky grin, he tugged it from his pants by the hem and hauled it over his head. I’d gotten a hint of his bare torso when he’d lifted his shirt after our run, but it had been a fleeting glimpse. Now I could take my time and explore him, unencumbered.

  The afternoon light shining in through the bedroom windows illuminated broad and solid shoulders that trailed downward to form thick and hard arms. A chest sculpted from marble was covered with a smattering of curly hair in a road map from his nipples all the way down below the waistband of his pants. I spread the fingers of one hand and threaded them through the hair across his firm pecs, lightly kneading the dense, firm mass under my hand.r />
  “A chest like this requires a lot of work in a gym.” I lifted up a bit and licked the flat disc of his nipple. Instantly it pebbled. When I wrapped it between my lips, gently pulling it between my teeth and biting down just a hair, Cade’s eyes slammed closed and his stomach went concave when he hissed in a jagged breath. I smiled against his skin and licked around his areola. The power surge that ran through me when a feral groan pushed up from deep within him was intoxicating.

  I had no time to savor the feeling. Cade’s fingers danced under the collar of my blouse as he unbuttoned the row of fastenings until I was laid bare to the waist, covered by just my bra. He nudged me back so I could lay flat on my back, folded open the sides of my blouse and I watched, fascinated, as he surveyed my torso.

  “This is from the breathing tube?” His index finger traced across the notch at my throat.

  I nodded.

  He planted a swift, though soft, kiss across it that made my toes tingle.

  “This one is from an intravenous line?” His finger skimmed over to the three puncture-shaped scars situated under my clavicle.

  “It’s called a subclavian line, and yes, it’s how I received fluids.”

  Another swipe with his lips. This time, though, he lingered over the indentation between my bone and the scar and gave the area a little wet suck.

  My knees bent and slammed together.

  Another nod while his hand traveled down. He seemed oblivious to what his touch was doing to me. That, or he was blatantly ignoring the subtle quickening of my breaths and the audible thrum of my speeding heartbeat. He skimmed over one breast, causing a whimper to slip between my lips when he didn’t stop there, to the series of healed punctures and keloid scars across my midsection.

  “Gastric tube insertion,” I said when he stopped at a scar on my upper left abdominal area. “I was given liquid nutrition through it.”

  He kissed it once, then again, then one more time.

  My knees lifted of their own accord when the space between my legs started to pulse.

  “This I recognize,” he said when his fingers spread across the jagged scar on the right side of my waist. “My mother had her gallbladder removed about ten years ago. Same scar.”