by J. Saman
Within minutes, a Detective Marks greets me.
“This way,” he says, after shaking my hand and giving me a full once over.
“Care to fill me in?” I ask his back.
He pauses for a moment, standing in the middle of the busy precinct floor. Then he turns to me with an unreadable expression. “We responded to a domestic violence call. We arrived at the scene to find Miss Sullivan and an unknown man on the floor after an obvious altercation. The man was badly injured and unconscious. He was taken to the hospital. Miss Sullivan refused care and was brought here.” That’s it. The brevity of his description alone raises a million questions in my mind.
But I don’t respond. There’s no point. I need to see Claire.
He leads me through the precinct, which is far newer and cleaner than any of the ones in New York, until we reach a room in the back. “She’s in here.”
Then he opens the door.
Claire’s head snaps up and her eyes instantly water at the sight of me.
What. The. Fuck?
The entire right side of her face is an angry, dark bluish-purple bruise. Her right eye is nearly swollen shut and she has a gash along her cheek. Her lips are split in two places and the eye that can open is bloodshot. If all of this wasn’t unsettling enough, I can see strangulation marks on her neck from here. Her red hair is a disheveled mess, hanging loosely from a haphazard ponytail. Her gray blouse is torn at the collar and is covered in blood.
Hers or his, I have no idea.
Across from her sits a young detective, a notepad in front of him with some writing on it. My eyes narrow at it, instantly suspicious.
“Detective . . .” I let the word hang, waiting for him to fill in the details of his name.
“Newfield,” he says, sitting up straight.
“Right. Detective Newfield, I’m Kyle Grant, Claire Sullivan’s attorney. I’d like some time alone to speak to my client.”
The detective purses his lips, glancing behind me, at the other detective no doubt, like he’s asking permission to do this. He must get some sort of affirmation because he rises slowly, not removing his eyes from me.
“How long has she been sitting here like this?” I ask, my anger desperate to get the best of me. It won’t. That won’t help Claire.
The younger detective doesn’t respond, but he does look over my fucking shoulder again.
“Has she been properly examined for injuries? She could have a concussion. Broken bones.”
“She was cleared by EMS at the scene,” dickhead one offers, but I don’t like this.
“Then I see that neither one of you are a gentleman.” He looks puzzled and the other detective steps into my line of sight with an air of aggravation. “You don’t even offer this woman an ice pack? Any sort of comfort? Something to drink? She’s clearly been injured and you treat her this way?” I’m incredulous. And fucking pissed off. “Is it really necessary to do this tonight?” I point a finger in Claire’s direction.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Grant,” that asshole Marks says behind me. “She’s being held for assault with a dangerous weapon and attempted murder.”
“You’re kidding me? Look at her!”
I spin around on him and he shrugs. “We know,” he says holding up his hands in surrender to try to calm me. “We can see that’s not the situation. But, we do need a statement now, because the injured man is saying that’s what happened.”
My stomach flips. Jesus, Claire. “Have you charged her with anything?”
He shakes his head no.
I’m about to argue the hell out of this and take Claire home with me when she looks up at me, stopping my thoughts midstream.
“I want to talk, Kyle. I don’t want to have to do this another time. I’m here. I want it done so I can go home.”
God, she looks so small and broken right now. I’ve never felt such an overwhelming sense of protection towards anyone the way I do right now. I need to fix this for her. So, I just nod my head, allowing her this.
“Then I expect someone to give her some ice for her face.” I glare at both detectives in turn.
At least the young detective has the good grace to look sheepish for a second before it vanishes. “I’ll get her an ice pack,” he says slowly. “And some coffee.”
“And shut off the audio,” I add before they can close the door behind them. They nod at me this time because they’re not about to break the law like that.
Even if they can’t hear us, they’re still watching, so I’m cautious as I approach her, despite being desperate to grab her and bring her into my arms. Ensure that she’s safe and okay. Christ, I can barely look at her. I’m boiling right now. The motherfucker that did this to her better not be here right now or I’ll tear through this place until I find him and end him.
But for now, I pull out the chair next to hers, the wooden feet scraping against the linoleum floors. I sit down, staring over at her as I take stock of her injuries. She can barely meet my eyes.
My foot slides under the table until it’s pressed against hers, offering her comfort in the only way I can right now. And just as I think that, I reach out and brush my fingers across her swollen face. She closes her eyes, wincing slightly. My hand drops to the table.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly, dying that I can’t touch her more.
“I’m fine. A little sore, but otherwise unscathed.”
I shake my head because that response sets my blood on fire. She’s lying.
“What happened, Claire? The detective told me that they’re holding you for now. They’re not charging you with assault or attempted murder, yet.” Her eyes blink and water up again. “I won’t let that happen. I won’t. But I need to know everything. Every single detail.”
She takes in a deep breath, her finger tracing an old water mark on the table.
“I met a guy in a bar tonight who introduced himself to me as Alan Gregory. The cops called him Mr. Arizona.” She rolls her eyes like that’s the most ridiculous thing ever. I guess it is. “Anyway, we made plans to go out for dinner tomorrow. He was supposed to meet me at my place and then we’d go.” She looks up at me, shifting so she’s facing me full on, begging me to believe her. A tear escapes the corner of her left eye, rolling down her cheek, quickly followed by a second. “I didn’t give him my real address, Kyle. I didn’t. I gave him the building two doors down from mine, and never my apartment number. He must have followed me home when I left the bar. I went home alone,” she adds, “and then he was knocking on my door.” She sighs, wiping away at her tears that refuse to slow. “I figured it was my neighbor or something.” She shrugs and then goes silent, her eyes locking in on her fingers as they move against the wood grain.
“Then what?” I urge.
“So, it was that guy. I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t have to. The second I opened that door, he burst through, knocking me down on my ass with a punch to the face.”
She pauses here again and a moment of horror fills me. “Did he rape you?”
She shakes her head no and I cannot even begin to describe the relief that swarms through me. It doesn’t last long as she continues, telling me everything that happened to her tonight. My fingers are gripping the edge of the table with so much force, I’m surprised it hasn’t splintered into a million pieces.
When she’s finished, she looks over at me with the most contrite expression I’ve ever seen on her. “They’re saying I attacked him. That I led him home with me and attacked him when he tried to leave.” She snorts like it’s the most absurd thing ever.
“Do you have any way of proving anything you just told me?”
She shakes her head for a beat before her eyes brighten and she looks up at me. Her movements are careful and I wonder again at the extent of her injuries.
“I texted him my address. Well,” she corrects, “the address two doors down. And the time of our date tomorrow. I even wrote, ‘see you tomorrow’.”
“Perfect. That’s perfect.”
>
“Is it enough?” She looks so nervous that my heart breaks for her.
“With that and your story, it should be.” I move my arm behind my body and motion at the camera in the corner of the ceiling for the officers to return. That door opens within seconds.
Way to play it cool, guys.
True to his word, the detective has both coffee and an icepack that Claire accepts graciously.
She tells them everything. Doesn’t miss a detail, and by the time they’re done writing her story down and listening, they’re nodding their heads like they get it. Like they agree with her version of things. How can they not?
She shows them her phone. It corroborates her story. We’re good.
After a shit ton of questions and another hour and twenty spent in this room, they tell us we can go. It’s late as sin and Claire is a mess. Claire might be the strongest woman I know, but what happened to her tonight shook her to her core. Rattled her in a way I don’t believe she thought possible.
I might be right there with her because the things that psycho said to her have my blood running cold. I can’t lose Claire. I don’t even care about any of the other crap between us. About the way she pulls me toward her only to push me away time and time again. I was warned she’d do that. And now I don’t even care. These last weeks without her were torture.
And even though I want her more than my next breath, I just need her in my life.
Chapter 29
Kyle
I drive us through the black night and the city streets. She doesn’t comment when we pass her building. Doesn’t even comment when I pull us into my building. No way on earth she’s leaving my side. I take her hand, guiding her to the elevator. She’s silent, but the moment we get into my apartment, she pauses, looking at me.
“I’m so sorry, Kyle,” she starts, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but her eyes never waver from mine. “I’m so grateful that you came to help me. You didn’t have to, but you did, and, well . . . thank you.”
Does she not understand? Does she not get that I would do anything for her?
“Come with me,” I say gently instead of responding to anything she just said. She takes my hand and lets me lead her. She’s slow. Cautious. She’s hurting and trying to hide it.
I’m angry with her.
I get that that’s the wrong response to have right now. She’s a victim. She was attacked and nearly killed. She may have to testify and go to court and relive this night over and over again.
But I’m still angry. At her. At me. At us.
I’m angry because she met a man at a bar and scheduled a date with him. I’m mad because she was going to go out with him and not me. I’m mad because I wasn’t there to protect her. I let the fact that we slept together change things between us. I let that night at her apartment ruin us, and as a result, she’s hesitant around me.
I take her into my bedroom. She lingers in the middle of the large space, just looking around like she doesn’t know if she wants to stay or go. She’s staying so she might as well get used to that.
I walk into the en-suite and start the shower for her. She needs to get cleaned up and I think she’d feel better for it. I’d give her a bath, but I don’t have fancy bubble bath. I’m a guy. We don’t use that shit. Or take baths for that matter. And frankly, judging by the way she can barely walk or move, she’s going to need my help. A bath just feels too intimate.
I go back into the bedroom and find her still standing in the same place.
“Come with me,” I say again. I just can’t speak to her yet. I don’t want to overload her. And I don’t know what to say. She’s been through enough and I have a tendency to get carried away with my questions once I start.
“Where are we going?” She tilts her head with a smile, trying to be playful.
“You need a shower.”
She nods her head, that bravado she’s clinging to so desperately, threatening to fall. “I, um . . .” She sighs and then laughs a little, “I don’t know if I can. I can barely move.”
I lead her into the bathroom, my hands on her hips as gently as I can while still being able to support and maneuver her.
“I know that,” I say quietly behind her. She’s trembling. “I’m going to help you, if that’s okay?”
She nods her head, staring at her hands.
“I thought I was being so careful,” she whispers, her voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the water slapping against the tiles. “I didn’t go home with him. I didn’t want to.” Claire looks up at me, tears lining her blue eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall. “I can’t even wrap my head around everything. Around the things he said. The things he wanted to do. How do you make sense of a man trying to kill you?”
“It’s not easy,” I tell her, and her eyes grow pained, remembering that I’ve been there myself. “He’ll never hurt you again.” I cup her cheek, forcing her eyes to mine. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
Claire moves in closer to me and gingerly wraps her arms around my chest. “Why do you put up with me? I don’t deserve you, Kyle Grant. I’m a mess of a person. A fucked up disaster.” Her head rests against my chest. My heart is hammering away and I know she feels it because she sighs, brings her palm up and rests it gently next to her face over the heavy beat. “I don’t mean to be. I really don’t. I try to do the right thing, but sometimes the reality of my life becomes too much and I just need to escape it for a little.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say softly into her hair, willing her to finally open up to me.
She pulls back and cups my cheek with her hand. “I know you don’t.”
And with that, she turns away from me and heads towards the shower. But she stops and waits for me. I swallow hard, reminding myself that this is not the time to get a voyeuristic thrill at seeing Claire naked.
My hands catch the hem of her blouse and slowly I pull it over her head. She lets out a strangled sound that’s between a gasp and a whimper.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but she doesn’t say anything. I unclasp her bra, and place it, along with her shirt on the chair in the corner. I drop to my knees, reaching around her to undo the button and zipper on her jeans before I lower them and her panties. She’s shaking and I don’t know if it’s from fear, pain, the intimacy of the moment, or embarrassment.
When her pants and panties are pooled at her feet, I stand up, helping her step out of them before I strip out of my suit. Claire doesn’t turn around to watch me, she just moves carefully to the shower, opens the glass door and steps inside.
I follow after her, guiding her to the rain shower that will be the gentlest against her injuries. “Lean back,” I whisper and she does, allowing me to wet her. I wash her hair, massaging the shampoo into her tresses, noting a large bump on the back of her head. She hisses out a breath when I press on it ever so slightly. I repeat the process with conditioner, more mindful of that sore spot.
She hasn’t said anything to me. Her body has been stock-still and I don’t know if I’m relieved by this or not. I stare sightlessly as I wash each part of her body with my soap. When I reach her ribs that are turning a darker purple before my eyes, my jaw clenches. As my fingers run across them, she gasps, taking a step back into me. Her warm, wet, soapy body brushes against me and I shut my eyes, doing everything in my power not to groan at the contact.
Once she’s clean, I shut off the water, stepping out, and wrapping a towel around my waist before I return with one for her. She takes it, looking over her shoulder and giving a shy smile. Leaving her for a moment, I return with a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. I help her dress in silence before leading her down the hall to the guest room.
She blinks at me, furrowing her eyebrows before she shrugs and scoots into bed. I hand her some Tylenol and a glass of water, which she takes with a grateful smile. We haven’t really spoken since she poured her heart out to me before the shower. Probably because I don’t know what to say to h
er at this point.
“Do you want me to tape up your ribs? Check you over?”
She shakes her head, her dark eyes glassy, but she’s smiling up at me, willing herself to be brave no doubt.
“Get some rest, sweetheart,” I say, bending down and kissing her forehead.
She smiles, blinking a lot against the darkness of the room. “Good night, Kyle.” She rolls gingerly until she finds a comfortable position. Just as I’m about to shut the door, I hear her whisper so quietly that she’s practically breathing the words, “If love were enough, I’d be yours forever.”
I pause for a beat, but she doesn’t turn over and she doesn’t say anything else. Shutting the door, I wonder if I actually heard her correctly.
Wondering what it is in her world that makes it that way.
Walking back to the other side of my apartment, all the way into my bedroom, I shut the door behind me.
Then I make the call.
I don’t call my brother. I should, but well, he’s got new babies and I’d feel awful if I woke any of them up.
“Dude, it’s like three in the morning and shit,” Luke says with a yawn.
“I know. It’s important.”
“What’s going on?” he asks and I hear him moving around which tells me he’s up.
“Claire was attacked tonight. Nearly killed. He tried to kill her,” I emphasize, needing to make that point clear for some reason. Maybe for myself so I don’t lose focus. So I don’t do something careless.
“What the fuck?” Luke yells out to the point where I have to pull my phone away from my ear. “Is she okay? Where is she?”
I can’t help but smile at the concern and panic in his voice. I wonder, if Claire really understands the depth of the love the people in her life have for her, if she’d be more willing to trust us with her life. With herself.
“I met her down at the police station. I’ll give you details later, but she’s here, in my apartment. She’s sleeping in the guest room,” I add unnecessarily, mentally chastising myself with a shake of my head.