Pieces of Me

by Walker, Shiloh

  “Don’t keep staring at him,” Jenks said, his voice low.

  I couldn’t look away. I felt like I’d been caught in the stare of a cobra, only this snake was so much more deadly. So much worse.

  A snake could kill, yes. But it did it for instinctive reasons. For food, for protection.

  A hand touched mine and I tore my gaze away, looked at Jenks.

  His gaze was solemn. His fingers laced with mine and I gripped his hand as though it was the only thing that kept me from drowning. Drowning in a sea of fear, misery and death. That darkness swarmed up to grab me. I remembered it. I’d been thrown down inside a room where there was no light, no sound. Where I couldn’t touch anything but the bare walls and my own body as I wasted away over the months. There was nothing else, and after a period of time, there was nobody else.

  “The guy with him is walking away,” Jenks said quietly. “But he’s coming over here. I want to put him through the pavement. But if I do that, I’m going to get arrested and I’m not leaving you.”

  The grip I had on his hand turned almost desperate. “As much as I’d love to see him go through the pavement, I don’t want you leaving me, either.”

  Then we didn’t have time for anything else.

  My skin went icy cold and I looked up, found myself staring into the wintry blue eyes of Stefan Stockman. Three years ago, I’d been known to the world as Grace Stockman, the young, sometimes awkward bride of the older, indulgent Boston blueblood.

  His family was one of the oldest in Massachusetts. He’d broken the mold, though. Instead of being a lawyer like the rest of them, he’d chosen to open an art gallery and he did what he called nurturing young talent…that was how he’d found me.

  Found me, fallen in love with me, married me. That was the fairy tale he’d told his family and the world.

  I was his awkward, blushing bride, twenty when we said our vows. He had been thirty-five and he’d completely dazzled me.

  Dazzled…maybe blinded is more like it.

  Now, years later, as he stopped beside our table, I wondered how I ever could have missed the coldness I saw in him now.

  I saw the flicker of disgust in his eyes as he looked me over. The girl I’d been, the girl who’d married him wanted to cringe, hide away, do something to please him and take that look away so he wouldn’t hurt me.

  The women I wanted to be was angry.

  She wanted to hurt him—wanted to make him angrier, wanted to lash out and do something.

  Where I found the courage, I don’t know. Maybe it was the way Jenks rubbed his thumb across my skin, or the way he sat there, so calm and steady—or maybe it was the way he’d mentioned that he hoped my ex was dead in a ditch, and when I’d said he wasn’t, Jenks had just calmly asked, Do you want him to be?

  I don’t know, but something gave me the courage and I pulled my hand from Jenks’ steady grasp and reached for the bottle of wine. Only a small amount remained and I poured it into my glass, every last drop, and then I leaned back in my chair, lifting the wine to my lips before I met Stefan’s cold gaze.

  “Did you need something?” I asked. My voice wasn’t level. And the words weren’t as carefree as I’d hoped.

  But I’d said it.

  I’d all but dared him.

  Three years, five years ago, that would have resulted in a blow that would leave me on the floor, probably bleeding, most definitely gasping for air.

  He wouldn’t dare strike me here.

  It didn’t mean I wasn’t terrified.

  And the son of a bitch knew it.

  But I’d pissed him off. I saw the flicker in his eyes and that angry woman inside me wanted to dance in victory. I appeased her with another sip of wine.

  “Grace. Lovely to see you looking so…sane,” he murmured. “Are you still taking your medication?”

  The wine was a cool, welcome relief down my throat, but there wasn’t enough of it. I needed more, needed another entire bottle. Tossing it back was tempting, but I didn’t let myself. I savored one more sip and put it down. As I glanced over at the table, I saw Jenks’ hand. As though he’d felt my gaze, he brushed his fingers over mine.

  I turned my hand up and he twined our fingers together.

  The sight of that steadied me enough that I could look back at Stefan and respond. “I sort of stopped needing meds once I was away from you.”

  The words were just a ghost of sound.

  Still, he heard me.

  I heard the soft hmmmm he made under his breath. He started to reach out his hand—he was so clever with his touches. The man could inflict pain and everybody else would see nothing but a loving brush of a hand, a supportive gesture.

  I recoiled, desperate to get away.

  But he never had a chance to so much as touch my hair.

  Jenks broke our grip, uncoiled from his chair and slid between us. He moved like the ocean, powerful and unstoppable.

  My breath hitched in my chest as he placed a staying hand on Stefan’s chest, keeping him from moving any closer to me.

  “Hands to yourself, my friend,” he advised, his voice low, gentle. But the sound of it sent a shudder down my spine.

  “You should watch yourself,” Stefan said. “I was just having a word with my wife.”

  “The last I heard, you two were divorced. And it doesn’t matter. I see her pulling back, so unless she asks for you to touch her, you don’t touch her.” Jenks took a step toward him and he towered over Stefan.

  Stefan was fit—with his gym-sculpted muscles and his perfect manicures and his hair that was cut every three weeks, at precisely 4:45, by the same girl. Once she’d been ill with the flu and Stefan had harangued the salon owner so scathingly, the man had sent him flowers the next day to make up for the technician’s lapse in judgment.

  Over the flu.

  I’d never seen Stefan back away from anybody.

  Until that moment.

  Jenks crowded into him, looking even larger, and Stefan backed up. He regretted it the minute he did it. I saw it in his eyes. But he couldn’t undo that one silent step in retreat, either.

  He smoothed his sleeves down, made it look as though he’d done it intentionally before he slid me a look. “You went and found yourself a devoted toy this time, my dear.”

  My heart slammed in my throat. That was the lie he’d liked to use during the divorce proceedings. He loved me and wanted to make our marriage work—it didn’t matter that I’d had numerous lovers and one of them must have kidnapped me, badly abused me during the months I’d been missing—and how he had searched for me. Those were the lies he’d told.

  Something twisted inside me. People had believed him. While I stood there with bruises, as I struggled to learn how to eat all over again, they had looked at me and wondered.

  My breathing hitched and I darted a look at Jenks from the corner of my eye. He was staring at Stefan as though he was in the mood to crack open the man’s skull and play with whatever contents he found inside. The gruesome image steadied me a little.

  How steady could I be, though, sitting there, so close to the man who had tortured me? Imprisoned me?

  I reached for the glass of wine.

  “Still drinking too much, Grace? You think that will help your situation?”

  Curling my fingers into a fist, I started to pull my hand back. I hated myself in that moment and made myself grab the glass, tossing it back and glaring at my ex.

  “You think talking is going to help yours?” Jenks asked, his voice a silken, low drawl.

  As Jenks glared down at my husband, I caught sight of the server, standing just a few feet from our table. She had a nervous look on her face and when she caught my gaze, she rushed over.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, pitching her voice low, directly to me.

  “Can you—”

  Stefan interrupted. “I’m just having a conversation with my wife,” Stefan said, cutting us off. “You can go.”

  I held her gaze. People had a
sked me, before, during that old life, if I needed help. If things were okay. If there was a problem. If I’d been honest then, if I’d had the courage…if I’d tried, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. I’d never know. But I’d be damned if I was silent now.

  “He’s not my husband,” I said, forcing my voice loud enough to be heard. “I divorced him three years ago and I’d rather him not be here.” I licked my lips and then I continued to speak. “Yes. Yes, there’s a problem.”

  People had been trying to ignore us, but at those words, a few of them stopped pretending. I saw one woman lean over to her husband and he pushed his chair back a few inches, eying Jenks and Stefan.

  The server straightened and looked at my ex.

  “Sir, as you’re not dining with them, please leave them to enjoy their dinner.”

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowing.

  She held his gaze.

  I wished I had that courage.

  The man who’d been watching the tableau a few tables away started to rise.

  But at that moment, Stefan turned and walked away, his carriage perfect, his steps unhurried. At the door, he paused and looked back at me. A small smile curved his lips. This wasn’t over. He wouldn’t let it be over, not as easily at that.

  Wilting against the back of my chair, I started to shake.

  And then abruptly, I bolted out of the seat and practically ran to the restroom. I barely made it before I emptied my stomach. The lovely dinner Jenks had bought me came up in one violent spasm after another.

  A hand brushed the back of my neck.

  I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

  How was it that he always managed to be around when I was at my worst? Straightening away from the porcelain toilet, I rested my head against his chest. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t figure they are going to arrest me because my girlfriend got sick and I didn’t want her to be alone,” he murmured, stroking my hair back from my cold, damp face.

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “Hmmm.” He stroked a paper towel back from my face. “I’ve had my hand inside your panties and you drew dirty pictures of me. I think that counts for something. You ready to get up, sugar?”

  I didn’t know if I could.

  My legs were weak, wobbly and the thought of getting upright, walking back out there in front of people was just more than I could handle.

  But I couldn’t stay there on my ass, sprawled against his chest in the middle of the ladies room either. “I’m going to have to walk out there, aren’t I?” I asked.

  “At some point.” He rubbed his thumb down my arm and said, “I left some cash on the table. The bill is paid. We can just leave once you’re ready.”

  Eyes closed, I breathed in his scent and then opened my eyes. It would be a good idea to get ready now, before anybody else came into the restroom. We wouldn’t be alone much longer. And I couldn’t handle the idea of trying to explain any of this away. “Let’s get up,” I said, taking a deep breath and trying to brace myself.

  I didn’t even come close, but just like that, I was on my feet and Jenks was the one bracing me, his hands on my waist, his eyes studying my face. “You want to wash your face?” He brushed my hair back and I nodded.

  I’d wash my face, my hands…I’d wash my entire body right there in the sink if I thought I could get away with it.

  “Let’s do this so I can go home,” I whispered. I just wanted to collapse and hide. Forget this day had happened.

  That was all I wanted.

  The little cottage I found myself in front of was not my home.

  It was cute.

  It was quaint.

  But it wasn’t my home.

  Swallowing, I looked over Jenks.

  “This isn’t home.”

  He stroked a hand down my back.

  “He knows where you live, doesn’t he?”

  That was one thing I hadn’t even considered. Stefan did know where I lived. He knew about my job, he knew where I shopped. Up until tonight, I’d had only one secret—Jenks.

  Resisting the need to press myself against him, I pulled back and wrapped my arms around myself. “Why are we here?”

  “Because if he doesn’t know about this place, he can’t look for you here. And I’m not keen on the idea of him knowing where you sleep. All he has to do is hang out at the bar across the way, watch for you.” He touched his thumb to my lip. “I could take you home, just sleep on your couch. But I’ll be honest, I want you here. In my bed. I want you safe and I want you away from anything that has to do with him.”

  It sounded so simple.

  So easy.

  He stroked his hands down my arms and then dipped his head, murmured into my ear. “I also want to take you inside, strip you out of this dress, maybe leave you wearing that petticoat while I spread you out across my bed. It faces the ocean and we can open the windows. We can listen to the waves while I make you come.”

  His voice was a low, steady stroke across my skin and I reached down and back, gripped his hips to steady myself. Against my flesh, I could feel the cool night air. He dipped his head and I shivered as his lips brushed against my shoulder. His hair touched my cheek and I could smell the shampoo he’d used. My head spun. Too much sensation.

  “Will you come inside with me, Shadow?” he asked, and nuzzled my neck just below my ear. Then he caught the lobe between his teeth and tugged.

  I felt it echo through every inch of me.

  “Yes.”

  It really wasn’t much of a question, what I’d do. Not really.

  Chapter Nine

  His bedroom opened up onto a deck, a tiny little U. Both the bedroom and the deck faced the water and although the night wasn’t cold, he built a fire in the fire pit and I sat down in front of it, surprised at how good the heat felt against my skin.

  Behind us, the bedroom was lit by the soft, golden glow of a few carefully placed lamps. There was a massive painting over the bed. The images in it looked like the mermaid he’d shown me.

  There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t place it and it had been ages since I’d really spent much time looking at art. The years of my marriage, I hadn’t been able to and then it had become a vicious, almost painful reminder.

  Another piece of myself I needed to take back.

  A bottle of Aquafina was put in front of me. I shot him a look. He sat down in the seat on the other side of the fire pit, holding a bottle of beer in his hands. “You have a shitload of that water in your fridge,” he said. “I figured you must like it, so I bought some to keep.” He shrugged, looked down. “Just in case. Figured you might need it.”

  Reaching for the bottle, I twisted the top off and took a drink, then another. My throat was painfully dry. And it would get worse.

  I thought maybe I needed to tell him.

  Everything.

  Before.

  He might not want me after he knew. If that was going to happen, I needed to know. It would be easier to just never know what could be, then to tell him later and lose him. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as it had been when I’d been locked away in that tight, dark basement, alone with nothing but my own voice, my own fears, but I’d be alone again. Nobody had been able to get inside the walls I’d built around me like Jenks had. I didn’t want to let him any further inside unless I knew I could trust him to stay.

  Nervously, I twisted the bottle around and around in my hands, staring at the flames through it while I tried to figure out where to start.

  The beginning. That was where the cops had always told me to start. They wanted to know when the beatings, the abuse had started.

  But it went farther back than that.

  “I was going to be an art major,” I said softly, staring into the flames. “That was how I met him…”

  Nervous, I glanced at him, saw that he was staring at nothing else. It was like I was all that existed for him.

  And that gave me the courage
to continue.

  “I was going to leave him. That was when he…”

  I had no idea how long I’d been talking.

  My throat was raw, raspy. My eyes were swollen and they itched.

  There was a box of Kleenex, mostly empty, and a wastebasket, almost full.

  And I sat on Jenks’ lap now.

  His arms held me loosely. More than once I’d gotten up to pace, but always, I came back there. Part of me thought I’d have to bolt as I came to this part, but now, as I tried to force the words out, I just started to shake.

  I couldn’t say it.

  I couldn’t even think about it.

  Nervous, I pushed away from him and scrambled for my phone.

  Stefan had hated the fact that the cops felt they had enough to push for an investigation. That meant certain things were on record. At times, reading through those records—public records—was the only thing that grounded me and made me remember that I was out. I’d gotten out.

  That I hadn’t gone crazy and that he hadn’t been able to cover all his lies with more lies.

  Some people knew.

  There were times, when the despair got to be too much, I found some small sliver of strength by looking at the few articles that had gotten published. There wasn’t much. The Stockman family was a powerful one and they’d managed to silence so much of the information.

  But there was one article that might do what I couldn’t just then.

  With shaking hands, I got my phone and opened the iBooks app and found the PDF.

  Then I shoved it into his hands and clambered away.

  I didn’t have to read it.

  I knew it, almost word for word.

  Boston’s Son, Stefan Stockman—Abuser or Victim?

  Stefan Stockman has been accused of horrible crimes that seem to have been ripped straight out of a psychological thriller. Grace Stockman, his wife, was found wandering the streets in the hours after the tornado that killed eight people. She had been missing for nine months.