What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

  If I’d seen her in any other circumstances, the first thing I would’ve noticed is her hair. It’s the colour of rich, warm auburn. Silky smooth and trailing down her shoulders. But today the first thing I notice is her eyes. No, that’s not quite true. It’s not the eyes so much as what’s behind them. I can see the pain etched somewhere deep in her soul. There are things reflected in her eyes that she should never have seen. Never have gone through. The weight she’s carrying around on her hunched shoulders presses down, trying to squeeze the life right out of her. It’s exactly the same thing I saw in Mia.

  For a second, I don’t know what to do. Should I get out of the car and approach her? But she can only be here for one reason. The rape crisis therapy session runs before my class. I don’t want to scare her. Shit, she’s already scared out of her mind.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I grab a pen from the glove box and scribble down the phone number of the coffee shop that’s written on her car onto my hand. The Ford jerks out onto the main road. I don’t know what I intend to do with the number. It’s not like I can phone her and say, ‘Hi, I saw you were a bit upset coming out of the Women’s Centre. Do you want to talk about it?’

  I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m thinking. All I know is that I need to help her. Maybe it’s some way I can atone for all the guilt inside. I couldn’t protect Mia from everything that happened. I couldn’t save her, but maybe I can save this woman.

  I start the engine of my beat up Volkswagen with the thought of trying to follow her and see if she leads me back to this coffee shop. As we head through town, it feels as if I’m stalking her, which is so damn creepy. But I can’t help myself, because she reminds me so much of Mia. Not physically. She doesn’t look like her. But I know. I can tell what she’s been through. What she’s going through. And the thought of it makes me so fucking angry and sick.

  When her car indicates off the main road at the edge of town, I question again what the hell I’m doing. I slow just enough to watch her park in a car park behind the coffee shop. I still don’t know what I’m going to do about it, if anything, but I can’t get her eyes out of my head as I drive off.

  I’m so consumed with the memories of Mia and that night threatening to suffocate me that I don’t see the car turning in front of my path until it’s too late. I plough straight into the side of the vehicle.

  My forehead cracks on the dashboard. My ears buzz.

  Then nothing but blackness.

  Chapter Three

  Grace

  I must’ve been crazy to think I could go through with it. To expose all these wounds and let everyone see how dirty and soiled I am. I can’t afford a one-to-one therapist, but deep down some instinct tells me I need to talk about what happened.

  So I have nothing left. No one to turn to. I don’t want to break apart, but if I can’t talk to a crisis group, I have to do the only thing I can do. The thing I’ve been doing for so long. Fake my existence. Pretend I’m OK. Suffer the nightmares and the irrational behaviour. Live with my fears.

  But I want more. I want so much more than that. I want to be happy. I want to live and not just exist. I just don’t know how to do it.

  I check my flat’s front door locks for the tenth time. Running my hands over each one from the top to the bottom and then starting again. I know they’re locked. I know it. But it doesn’t help my ritual. He knows where I live. He knows everything about me. He could get inside.

  Tonight.

  While I sleep.

  If I sleep.

  I sit in front of the door with a kitchen knife in my hand and stare at the locks, the fear making my head throb. My eyes water; it must be from focusing so hard. It can’t be the tears again. I have none left tonight. I don’t know how long I sit there, grasping the knife.

  My mobile phone sounds suddenly, making me jump in the cold, hard silence that rings in my ears.

  Only a few people ever ring my number. Aunt Imogen, who rarely calls, and Lisa, or the occasional office worker who phones the coffee shop wanting to know if we do deliveries of coffee and cakes.

  I uncross my legs, the stiffness from being in one position for so long evident when I stand up. I grab my mobile from my handbag and look at the number. I don’t recognize it. Unless it’s him. He hasn’t called me since it happened. He hasn’t come to my flat or the shop. But it could happen.

  The phone rings in my hand, but I don’t answer it. My guts do a loop-the-loop. When it stops ringing, the buzzing silence is back again. I have to know if it’s him or not, so I dial my voicemail and listen for a message.

  ‘Hi, this is Nurse Anderson from Adenbrooke’s Hospital. We’ve just had a male brought into Accident and Emergency who’s been involved in a car accident. He’s unconscious, and we’re trying to find out who he is. He has this phone number written on his hand, so you might know him. Could you please give me a call back as soon as you get this message? Thank you.’

  I frown at the phone and replay the message. It must be some kind of mistake. Who would have the coffee shop number written on their hand?

  I call Lisa. Maybe her husband, Jack, wrote the number down in case he wanted to get hold of her at work, and he’s been in some kind of accident.

  The phone rings, but no one answers. And now I’m worried about them both.

  I phone the number given and pace my kitchen floor.

  ‘Adenbrooke’s Hospital, Nurse Anderson speaking.’

  ‘Hello? My name’s Grace Elliot. You phoned me about a man in A&E with my number on his hand.’ My voice rushes out, high-pitched with worry.

  ‘Yes. Thanks so much for calling back. Do you know who he could be? He’s about twenty-five years old. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Around six-foot-three.’

  ‘Jack?’ My breath hitches in my throat. It sounds like him, but where’s Lisa? ‘Was he with a pregnant woman?’

  ‘No. He was on his own. Is it possible for you to come down and identify him? He’s got a head injury and he’s stable, but we really need to try and find out who he is and if he has any allergies to any medication. The police did a check on his vehicle registration number, but it’s still listed with the previous owner.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.’ I hang up and reach for my car keys. The only thoughts going through my mind as I run down the stairs are of Jack dying and never seeing his unborn daughter.

  I park the car at a haphazard angle in the hospital car park and rush through to Accident and Emergency. A female nurse is standing inside the entrance behind a podium with forms piled up on it.

  ‘Hi, I’m here to try and identify a man who was brought in with a head injury,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yes, Nurse Anderson told me you’d be coming. He’s been moved to…’ She looks down at a clipboard. ‘He’s in Florence ward.’ She points to some double doors. ‘Go along the corridor until you reach the lift, and it’s on the fifth floor.’

  I follow her directions and get in the lift, avoiding the gaze of a young male doctor in a white coat. In any other circumstances, I’d wait for another lift—an empty one, or one that had more people in it, but I have to get to Jack and find out if he’s OK. As the doors shut, I feel trapped, stuck inside a coffin, buried alive. I press myself against the wall, my eyes on the emergency button, trying to slow down my breathing. I look out of the corner of my eye at the doctor who’s reading through a file. I want to be invisible.

  I count the floor numbers in my head as the panel on the side of the lift lights them up. One, two, three, four, five. I push off the side of the lift before the door’s even fully open, ready to take flight and escape, trying to ignore the palpitations in my chest.

  The ward is to my left. I go through more doors and rush to the nurses’ station in front of me.

  A nurse in her mid-thirties pauses from filling in a chart and glances up at me, her forehead pinched in a harassed frown. ‘Hi, can I help you?’

  I explain again why I’m there, and she leads me down the
corridor. I haven’t set foot in a hospital since Mum died. The smells of disinfectant, antiseptic, and illness seep into my senses and bring it all back. The muscles in my stomach clench tight. I try not to look at the patients in bays on either side of me. I’m so close to turning around and running out of here. I’ve had enough sensory overload for one day. I just want to be at home behind my locked door.

  ‘He’s over here.’ The nurse walks into a four-bed bay.

  Two of the beds have a privacy curtain around them and one of the others is empty. She stops in front of the only occupied bed, and I find myself looking at a dark-haired guy. His eyes are closed. He looks peaceful. His long, dark eyelashes fan against his cheeks. His forehead has a big red lump, and two black eyes already bruise his skin.

  A gasp escapes from my lips, because this isn’t Jack. I have absolutely no clue who he is or what possible reason there could be for my phone number on his hand.

  ‘I…I’ve never seen him before.’ I stare at his bruised face as my thoughts race. I still can’t come up with an explanation for this.

  ‘You’re sure?’ The nurse’s frown grows more pronounced. ‘He had your number written on his hand.

  ‘I’m positive. I’ve never seen him before.’

  Her pager goes off, the sound bouncing off the three walls in the bay. ‘Sorry. Emergency. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Her shoes squeak against the lino floor as she rushes back down the corridor.

  I freeze, unsure what to do. I want him to wake up so I can find out what he knows about me, but at the same time, I don’t want to know. What if he gave him my number? What if this guy is out to hurt me somehow?

  I panic and turn to leave. Then his croaky voice says, ‘Hi.’

  My head whips back round to face him, and I’m staring into two dark pools of chocolate brown eyes.

  It’s like looking into a mirror. I can see something hidden in those depths. Something sad and painful. Like he’s danced with tragedy and trauma and knows how it all works.

  His gaze penetrates mine, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I’m hypnotized. The odd intensity of his look should make me scared, but I’m not, and I don’t know why. It’s like he knows me somehow, which is beyond bizarre because I’ve never seen him before in my life. And instead of making me want to run, the warmth and kindness exuding from that look turns my feet to concrete, and I’m rooted to the spot.

  Chapter Four

  Ben

  My head’s killing me. I feel as if I’ve been fighting in a championship title match, but of course, that’s not possible. I haven’t fought in years. So, why am I in hospital?

  I see her now. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. The way the light hits it makes it look alive with fire.

  She’s facing back towards the corridor, preparing to leave, and although I’m in pain, I can’t let her go. I need to talk to her, even if my head’s telling me to close my eyes and rest.

  ‘Hi,’ I manage through dry lips.

  She jumps, jerking her head back towards me. Her huge green eyes are wild with fright, and I’m lost in them. Up close, she’s even more beautiful. She’s so tiny, like a fragile, rare bird. It makes me want to slip my arms round her and keep her safe.

  ‘What happened?’ I croak out, wanting to keep her talking. To keep her here until…shit, I don’t know. Nothing’s making sense anymore. Maybe it’s the hit to the head I’ve obviously taken. I know I’m not thinking straight where she’s concerned.

  The tension in her forehead relaxes its grip, and the crinkles smooth out. Something that looks like concern replaces the fear.

  ‘You were in a car accident. Are you feeling OK?’ She lifts her hand as if she’s about to touch me, but it hovers for a second in the air before she drops it back to her side.

  I manage a smile, and my forehead yelps in protest at the movement of my facial muscles. I wait for a second, holding her gaze, trying to think of something witty to say. Something that will impress her. Finally, the best I can come up with is, ‘I’ve got a killer headache.’ I touch a huge, tender lump on my forehead. I’ve had worse injuries fighting. ‘What does the other guy look like?’

  Her full, pink lips curve into the ghost of a smile. ‘The other guy was a dashboard.’

  I raise my eyebrows, and that fucking hurts, too, but I don’t care as long as she’s talking to me. ‘Well, Mr Dashboard won tonight, I think.’

  Nervousness replaces her smile. Her gaze flits around the room. She’s looking for an escape route. ‘Er…shall I get you a nurse?’

  ‘No!’ It comes out too fast and a little louder than I intend. Then I remember what happened. Seeing her at the Women’s Centre, following her to the coffee shop, the car turning in my path. ‘Are the people in the other car OK?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. The hospital called me because you had my number written on your hand, and they thought you knew me.’ Her frightened bird look is back. A wave of uncertainty and fear washes over her face. She swallows so hard the muscles in her throat bob up and down. ‘Why did you have my number?’ It’s barely a whisper, but I still hear the fear there.

  I close my eyes briefly to try to hide the lie that’s coming.

  Think, Ben. What reason can you give?

  I don’t want to say the wrong thing, or she’ll run away from me.

  When I open them again, I say, ‘I saw your car out earlier tonight, and it looked like one of your brake lights wasn’t working.’ I pause, getting myself in deeper shit, because she’s going to check and find it working perfectly. ‘I saw the phone number sign-written on the back, so I was going to call and let you know.’ I smile again, going for sincerity, and she seems to buy it. I hate lying to her, but I can hardly tell her the truth. She’d bolt out of here in a shot.

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Well…thanks. That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an electrical fault, or you need a new bulb. Or it could be an intermittent problem,’ I add, trying to cover my tracks.

  She chews on her lip for a second before asking, ‘Are you a mechanic?’

  ‘No, although I can turn my hand to most things practical.’ Which is not a lie. I’ve had a lot of time to study and learn where I’ve been. ‘I can take a look at the light for you when I get out, if you like?’ It comes out more like a question than a suggestion. I don’t want to push too hard.

  She glances around again. ‘Well…um…that’s very kind of you, but I’m sure you’ll be recovering for a while.’ Her eyes narrow at my forehead, and her button nose crinkles at the same time, making her look so cute.

  She hovers from foot to foot, as if wanting to ask more but not quite sure how. I’m about to say something else to keep the conversation going when she asks, ‘So, what do you do if you’re not a mechanic?’

  ‘At the moment, I teach women’s self-defence. I’m also a counsellor and work part time doing young adult and grief counselling. I moved down from London a couple of years ago for work, but I’m looking to find something more permanent. It’s not easy to get full time jobs in counselling.’ Again, it’s not a lie, but it’s not quite the truth, either. If she knew the truth, she’d definitely be running out the door.

  Something flashes in her eyes, and I’m not quite sure what it is. She opens her mouth to speak. Closes it again.

  I’m about to fill the silence when she says, ‘A counsellor? Wow. It must be great to help people.’ She gives me that ghost smile again. I want to see more of it, because it lights up her face, but I get the impression it doesn’t happen often. She tries to hide behind a mask of normality. It’s what Mia did. And although she does it pretty well, I can see through it to the shadow of fear there and the scars deep inside. Her eyes tell me all the secrets she’s trying to keep locked away.

  My own eyes water with emotion, and I blink to clear away the thoughts. Even though it’s been over five years since Mia’s been gone, and time has healed the rawness of it all, it still hurts. And the worst part is, it was
my fault. If only I’d known, I could’ve done something about it. Done something differently.

  I’m so lost in old memories, I don’t realize she’s talking at first until I hear, ‘…where do you teach self-defence?’

  ‘At the Cambridge Women’s Centre and the Leisure Centre Gym.’

  Her gaze drifts off to the side, as if she’s thinking about something. She’s back to chewing on her lip again, and it’s adorable.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Well…I’d better go. I hope you get better soon.’

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I don’t want her to leave. I want to talk to her all night. This can’t be the end. I don’t want to pressure her in any way, so I hold out my hand and say, ‘I’m Ben Hardy, by the way.’

  She backs away and stares at my hand as if it’s on fire.

  Oh, you stupid idiot! Why did you do that?

  I retract my hand and keep my smile even.

  Her gaze moves from my hand to my face, and her cheeks flush with relief. ‘I’m Grace.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Grace.’

  Chapter Five

  Grace

  As I leave the hospital, my cheeks are flushed with warmth, and my steps feel lighter. I touch my cheeks and think it must be the heat from the building. It’s so damn hot in there, it must be making me lightheaded.

  I exit through A&E into the cool, dark night, not knowing what just happened.

  This isn’t me. I don’t talk to strange men. I don’t have actual conversations with them, other than asking their coffee requirements. And I definitely don’t give them my name.

  What the fuck have you just gone and done?

  He saw my car; he knows my number, which means he knows where I work. But instead of feeling a rising panic, I just feel…confused. When he looked at me, it seemed as if he was staring deep inside me. As if he knew me. Really knew me. Not the mask I wear, but the woman inside who desperately wants help but is too afraid to ask. But how could he?