Giving Grace (The Gilroy Clan Book 8)

by Megyn Ward

  “No,” he says quietly. “I just…” He swears softly under his breath “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  He’s worried about me.

  That I’m going to lose my shit.

  Because I told him about Molly.

  What happened to me.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, instantly defensive. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter when it happened,” he tells me, his low deep voice reaching out to me in the dark. “It still happened.”

  He’s right.

  I know he’s right but I can’t accept it. Not right now. That’s the weird thing about trauma. Some days you’re okay. Some days you don’t even think about the thing that shaped you. Made you into someone you were never meant to be—and some days it’s the only thing that matters. The only thing that’s real.

  “I ran track in high school,” I tell him quietly, because now is one of those time. I need to say it all out loud. Get it all out so it can’t hurt me anymore. So I can move on and try to be okay again. “I ran the 100-meter dash and one-mile relay—I ran anchor.” Somehow, I find the courage to close the distance between us and perch myself next to him on the edge of the bed. “My senior year, I was offered a full-ride track scholarship to a small, private, in-state college and even though I knew I was going to take it, I pretended I wasn’t sure so my parents would let me attend the special orientation weekend they offer to student-athletes they’re pitching their program to—basically it’s a three-day party hosted on a college campus. I…” Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly, swallowing hard against the bitter lump in my throat. “I was sponsored by a junior girl—she was there on a volleyball scholarship—and she showed me around and offered to take me to an off-campus party—and I said yes. The last thing I remember from that night is walking up the sidewalk of the house the party was in.” I look over at him and feel my courage begin to wane, because saying the words I was raped is one thing—telling someone how is what makes it real. What could potentially change the way they see you, the way they feel about you, forever.

  Like he can read my mind, I feel his shoulder move against mine as he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine in the dark. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay. That I don’t have to tell him if I don’t want to. He just holds my hand and waits.

  “That’s where I woke up the next morning, alone in a strange bed—” Another deep breath. Another slow release. “Looking back, Even though I didn’t remember it, I think I knew what happened—I just didn’t want to believe it. So, I just left. Found my way back to campus and the dorm room I was staying in. When I asked my sponsor what happened she just shrugged and said she saw me drinking and having a good time but then she lost track of me.”

  “Someone put something in your drink,” he puts two and two together, his tone strange and heavy, like he’s having a hard time pushing the words out of his mouth. “And she just left you?”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I think so. I don’t know for sure—it was Sunday and my parents were coming to get me, so I showered and changed my clothes and went home like nothing happened.”

  But something did happen.

  “When I missed my first period, I blocked it out. Pretended it wasn’t happening, like everything else. When I missed my second period, I took three buses to the next town over and bought a pregnancy test. I took it in a McDonald’s bathroom—when it came back positive I threw it in the trash and went home.” This is the part I hate. The part that comes next. “When I missed my third period, I scheduled an appointment at an abortion clinic. While I was sitting there, waiting for my name to be called, I felt her move—this sort of fast fluttering in my lower belly—like a moth trapped under a glass. When they called my name, I couldn’t do it, so I got up and walked out.”

  “And you never told anyone?” There’s no judgment in his tone. No reproach. It’s just a question, but I feel it anyway. The shame of what happened, because I was weak and stupid. Because I let it happen. Couldn’t stop it.

  “I went back to the house—turns out it was a fraternity. I knocked on the door and the guy who answered it recognized me. Knew my name. I asked him point-blank if he was guy who raped me—”

  Ryan’s hand tightens around mine, his fingers pressing against the back of my hand so hard I can feel my bones bend under the pressure of it.

  “Jesus, Grace.” There’s the judgment. There’s the reproach—not because he thinks I’m to blame for what happened, but because I put myself in danger. I was stupid enough to go there alone. To stand on the porch of the house where I was raped and point a finger at someone living inside. “What happened?”

  “He laughed at me and shrugged. Then he said, maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn’t. What are you gonna do—line the whole fraternity up for a swab test?”

  “Do you know his name?”

  The judgment is gone, replaced with something hard and unyielding. Something that reminds me of the first night we met. The way that douche with the Rolex looked ready to faint when Ryan asked him why he was bothering me. That he put an orderly at Sojourn in the hospital over something to do with me, whether he wants to admit it or not.

  Something that should scare the shit out of me but doesn’t.

  That Ryan is dangerous.

  With a capital D.

  “No.” It’s the truth, I don’t but when I say it, he looks at me like he doesn’t want to believe me. “He was right, so I just left.”

  “He was right?” His tone goes heavy again. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means he was right—I couldn’t prove any of it so what was the point?” I pull my hand from his and push myself to my feet. “And to be honest, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want anyone to know because I was pregnant and I was afraid it would change the way I felt about her. Change my mind about keeping her—and I wanted her. I needed something good to come out of what happened to me. That’s what I realized, as soon as I asked him—that I didn’t want to know. That I was glad I didn’t remember and when he slammed the door in my face, I was relieved...” My voice cracks and even though it’s dark, I have to look away from the shape of him because I can feel him looking at me. Judging me. “I supposed that makes me a coward, huh?”

  “You’re not a coward.” I sense, rather than feel him reach for me but I pull away before his hand can find mine. He makes a soft, frustrated sound before pushing my name out on a heavy breath “Grace—”

  “Goodnight, Ryan.” I turn away from him with as much dignity as I can and stumble my way around the bed and across the room.

  “Goddamnit.” I feel him surge to his feet behind me. That he’s close. Seconds away from stopping me from leaving. “Can we at least—”

  “No, we can’t.” Using the thin slice of moonlight to navigate my way through the dark, I find the door and use it to make my escape.

  Thirty-four

  Ryan

  I fucked up.

  Big time.

  Which, in of itself, isn’t a surprise. When it comes to Grace, I’m nothing but a walking, talking pile of fuckery.

  I’m halfway across my room, intent on following her and doing something stupid, when my phone starts to rattle on my dresser again. This time I snatch it up and answer it.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I growl into the phone because I’m sure it’s Patrick and even though I’ve been on my best behavior for the past few months, I’m suddenly feeling like me. The old me. The me that swings first and asks questions later. The me that leaps before he looks.

  “I’d like my daughter to answer her phone.” A slightly familiar male voice cuts across the line. “But I guess I’ll settle for talking to you.”

  Grace’s father.

  Shit.

  “Alright.” I growl at him because, even though this is Grace’s father and my heart is slamming around in my chest like it wants to jump up my throat,
I’m still pissed over the way they treated her. “So talk.”

  “I’m more of a face-to-face kinda guy,” he tells me. “And since—”

  “You at Patrick and Cari’s?” I cut him off because as it turns out, I’m a face-to-face kinda guy myself.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes,” I tell him before hanging up the phone.

  Pulling up my texts, I scroll through the long list of messages from Patrick.

  Patrick: Bring them back.

  Patrick: I’m serious.

  Patrick: Ellen is freaking out.

  Patrick: It’s my wedding day,

  you fuck, and Cari is losing

  her shit.

  Patrick: Ellen is talking about

  calling the police and getting

  them to issue an Amber Alert

  FFS.

  Patrick: Cari is worried, man.

  Please… just let me know

  they’re okay.

  Even though the angry, fucked up part of me wants to leave him hanging, I know I can’t.

  Me: Tell Cari they’re fine.

  Sleeping in my spare room.

  Even though his last text came through almost thirty minutes ago, he hits me back almost immediately.

  Patrick: I guess it’s too

  much to ask you to

  take them home, huh?

  Me: They are home.

  Patrick: I’m serious,

  fuckface.

  Me: So am I.

  Tossing my phone back on the dresser without waiting for a reply, I frog-march myself into the bathroom and peel off the rest of my suit before doing what I wanted to do all along, which is take a shower.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling my car into Gilroy’s parking lot and park in front of the side door. Fishing through my keys, I find the one with a yellow bumper and slam it into the lock before giving it a hard twist. Door open, I punch in my alarm code and re-lock it.

  Grace’s dad is sitting at the bar, waiting for me.

  Making my way behind the bar, I pull a pint from the rack and tilt it under one of the domestic taps and work the lever, righting the glass when it’s nearly full. “So…” I toss a cocktail napkin on the bar between us, setting the pint on it before pushing it in his direction. “Talk.”

  He picks up the glass of beer and even though he looks like he wants to crack me over the head with it, he takes a drink before setting it back on its napkin while I pull another pint from the rack. “Alright—where’s my daughter? My granddaughter?”

  Where they belong.

  Instead of saying it out loud, I concentrate on opening the ice bin. Using the metal scoop to fill my glass with ice. Aiming the mixer gun over its rim, I fill it with club soda. “They’re at my place—sleeping.”

  “That why Grace won’t answer her phone? Because she’s sleeping?” I’d have to be deaf to miss the sarcastic edge to his tone.

  “I’m not sure—” I flip the lid on one of the garnish trays and fish out a lime wedge and squeeze it into my glass before tossing it into the trash. “but if I were to take a guess, I’d have to say the reason Grace isn’t answering her phone is because you assholes tried to railroad her.”

  His jaw snaps tight—either because I called him an asshole or because I just accused him of mistreating his daughter—and he pins me with a glare cold enough to freeze fire. “Careful, Ranger,” he warns me, “I don’t care how many commendations you have—”

  “What did you call me?”

  “I know who you are—what you’ve done for this country.” When all I do is stare at him, the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “What?” He lifts his beer and takes another drink. “You really think I’d leave my daughter and my granddaughter to the likes of you without pulling your jacket?”

  “You pulled my service file?” I feel my heart take off at a gallop, slamming and ping-ponging around my chest so hard and fast it feels like my ribs are cracking with every bounce. “How?”

  “Wasn’t that hard—I’m an old dog,” he tells me with a shrug like it’s a real answer. “Old dogs run together, no matter the breed.”

  “Bullshit.” Unable to accept his explanation, I bite the word in half and practically spit it at him. “I was—”

  “Yeah, yeah—” He lifts his glass, chuckling into it before taking another drink. “you were a regular fuckin’ Rambo, before things went pear-shaped on you—I got the gist of it, even through the heavy redaction.” Despite his needling, there’s a slight shift in his tone. Something that sounds almost like respect. He jerks his chin at my leg. “You tell her how it happened?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t tell her something I don’t remember.” It’s a lie. Five months of therapy have done a lot. Made a lot of changes and that’s one of them. I remember. I remember everything. “Besides, how doesn’t really matter does it? Doesn’t change what happened. What I am now.”

  He gives me a long, appraising look, his fade blue eyes raking over me, the expression on his face unreadable. “You’re different,” he tells me, reminding me of the conversation I had with Grace on Friday.

  “I suppose I am,” I concede with a shrug. “Is that why we’re here—so you can tell me that you read my service record and that I’m different?”

  “No, Ranger—” He lifts his glass for the final time and drains it before setting down with a heavy clunk. “We’re here so I can look you in the eye when I ask you if you’re in love with my daughter.”

  “Yes,” I answer him without hesitation. I don’t look away. “I’m in love with Grace.”

  He makes a noise in the back of his throat—the tone of it caught somewhere between resignation and acceptance—and nods. “And Molly?”

  For some dumb reason, when he says her name, I smile. Can’t help it. “I supposed I’m in love with her too.”

  “I figured as much.” He levels his gaze at the untouched glass of club soda in front of me. “You a drunk?”

  “No—but my father is.”

  He looks past the bar, his gaze dipping toward my leg again. “Pills?”

  “If I’ve had a rough day, I take 20mgs of oxytocin before I go to bed,” I tell him, thinking about the pill Kaitlyn practically had to force down my throat. “Mostly, I manage the pain with a fuck-ton of therapy.” Six months ago, that admission would’ve killed me. Would’ve made me feel like less. Like my father. Now, most days, I see it for what it is.

  Necessary.

  “Your dad ever hit your mom?” It’s a blunt, ugly question but I understand why he asks it. Why I need to answer it.

  “They hit each other,” I tell him with a helpless shrug. “Almost every day, until she left him—left us both—and took my sister with her.” Because he read my jacket and undoubtedly knows anyway, I lay the rest of it out there. “When I was 17, I got mixed up in some bad shit—I stole cars. Got caught and was given the choice of either the military or jail—I took option A.” It’s not the whole truth—I don’t mention Troy Murphy or that fact that it was his brand-new son-in-law’s cousin that got me hooked into boosting cars in the first place—but it’s enough. It’s all he needs to know.

  “You gonna marry my daughter?”

  “If that’s what she wants,” I tell him. “To be perfectly honest, I’m willing to take Grace any way she’ll let me have her.” That’s how much I love her. How desperate I am to be in her life and in Molly’s. “I’m here for her—whatever she wants.”

  “And if she wants to get married?” He pressed the question because he thinks I’m dodging it. Thinks I might not be a long-haul guy after all.

  “Then I’m going to marry the shit out of her.”

  His face cracks, the corners of his mouth lifting into something between a smile and smirk before giving me a single head nod, like he’s making up his mind. “How much you weigh?”

  I’ve packed on about fifteen pounds of muscle in the past several months. Doing a quick calculation, I shrug. “Two twe
nty. Two twenty-five.”

  He gives me another nod. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Patrick when I had this talk with him—you hurt my girls, I don’t give a good goddamn what your jacket says—I’ll murder you, dismember you, stuff you in a trash bag and drive your parts up the coast. I got a buddy who runs a fishing boat—he pays for chum by the pound and when I tell him you hurt Grace, he won’t give a shit if you have opposable thumbs or not. Are we clear?”

  “As a bell.”

  “Good.” He slaps his palm against the bar top and stands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make a bad situation worse by telling my wife she’s got a plane to catch.”

  Thirty-five

  Grace

  Ryan left.

  Laying here, next to a softly snoring Molly, I try not to wonder where he went or if he’s coming back. Where he is. Who he’s with.

  The crazy, jealous part of me wants to charge across the hall and bang on Kaitlyn’s door because that crazy, jealous part of me is sure that’s where he is. It thinks about the easy, familiar way she moved around his space. Knew where he keeps his drinking glasses. His medication. That knew exactly what to say to him to make him take it. That he did what she asked. That she probably know why he doesn’t want to take them in the first place.

  The front door opens again about an hour later and I’m up and over a softly snoring Molly before I can think. Standing to the side of it to keep hidden, I watch through the crack in the bedroom door as he quietly limps his way into the kitchen and opens the fridge to stare into it for a few seconds before shutting it again without reaching inside.

  Leaning against the counter, he works his boots off and kicks them across the floor with an audible groan of relief.

  The crazy, jealous part of me stops howling because it realizes that he wouldn’t have bothered with shoes if he was just going across the hall to fuck his neighbor.

  Without warning, Ryan aims a look directly at the door I’m hiding behind and lifts a hand to crook a finger at me in a come here gesture that has me backing away from my hiding spot and deeper into the shadows.