Gray Wolf Security: Back Home

by Glenna Sinclair

  Please God, please, make it stop. Make them go away. Make them leave me alone.

  Those were my only coherent thoughts in that farmhouse, the only thing I could hold on to while they tortured and abused my body. Four men.

  One a redhead like Carrington Matthews. Two blondes. One black with a shaved head.

  I would never forget their faces, their bodies. Never forget what it felt like when they touched me, never forget the sounds of their drunken laughter, the jokes they told, the moans that slipped from their lips when they were on top of me. I would never forget anything about those three days.

  Like the way it felt when the one would touch my hand, hold it almost casually as his friends hurt me, like he was offering me some sort of comfort.

  The redhead.

  The memory burned like fire through me. When I first laid eyes on Carrington Matthews, I wanted to run for the hills. Now I knew why. He reminded me of that man, of one of my torturers. And when he touched me…

  I pushed myself up and slammed my hands against the steering wheel. Again and again. And then I screamed.

  I couldn’t let these people run my life. I couldn’t keep having these panic attacks, couldn’t give them this power over me. I couldn’t let them win!

  He was Carrington Matthews, not my rapist. He was a good man, a father and a husband. He was a businessman. He was funny and generous and kind. He was not a monster.

  He’d touched me out of kindness and gratitude, not cruelty.

  I had to stop. I had to regain control. This was my life, damn it! I had a right to it.

  I had a right.

  Chapter 14

  Boone

  I knew the moment she walked through the door that something was wrong. Her eyes were red rimmed, but her skin was pale. She was shaking, her hands like little stones in a polishing machine. She marched straight into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, swallowing half of it in one big gulp.

  “Bad day at work?”

  She didn’t get the joke. She leaned against the front of the stainless steel fridge and stared out the window over the sink. There was something blank about her expression, a blankness that I recognized.

  “Erin?”

  She shook her head, pulling back into herself. “We need to do a little research on the computer.”

  “Okay.”

  She moved around me, keeping a good amount of distance between us. I waited till she was safely out of the kitchen before following. Her computer was set up in the living room, a little desk in front of a lovely picture window, sheer drapes constantly drawn behind it. She pulled a chair up beside her own, making sure it was positioned far enough away that we wouldn’t accidentally touch.

  She booted the machine up and opened a search box, typing in Elizabeth’s name. I watched as she quickly scrolled through the results as though she already knew they would offer no information.

  “Do you have an idea how old she is?”

  I shook my head. “About thirty-five. Maybe slightly older.”

  She typed in 1982 before the word birth behind Elizabeth’s name. A few possibilities came up, but she quickly dismissed them as well. She went on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat, putting in variations of Elizabeth’s name and the year of her birth, searching for any hint of her. But I knew that would be a lost cause. Those of us who liked to pretend we were someone other than our true selves rarely used social media that could get us caught. But I supposed it was worth a try.

  She used several other programs, asked half a dozen questions, searching for any hint of Elizabeth on websites I’d never even heard of. I was pretty sure she even managed to search for her on the Los Angeles Police Department’s website, though I’m not sure how she did that. After several hours, she sighed and sat back, rubbing her hands over her face.

  “I’m going to have to think of something else, but I’m too tired now.”

  “Then let’s take a break. Eat something.”

  “Not hungry.” She stood. “I think I’ll just go take a shower and get ready for bed.”

  There was something dark in her eyes, something haunted. I wanted to touch her, wanted to wipe the sadness and grief from her, but she’d made it clear that touching wasn’t something she wanted now. I just watched from the distance she’d defined.

  “Do you mind if I make something for myself?”

  She shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  I’m not sure she knew what she was doing when she gave me carte blanche in the kitchen, but in fifteen minutes I had quite a meal going. Rice in the pressure cooker. Chicken on the stove with garlic and lemons. A lovely tomato sauce in a pan with fresh tomatoes and more garlic, onions, and green peppers. The smell was enough to draw her out of the bedroom, her hair still wet as it stuck to the back of her skull.

  “You can cook?”

  “One of my many talents.”

  “Who taught you?”

  I shrugged. “A woman of Italian descent I knew a few years ago. Taught me how to roll out my own pasta, too.”

  “I guess you pick up a lot, moving from woman to woman.”

  “I guess you do.”

  I glanced at her, wondering if there was any jealousy or animosity in her declaration, any judgment at all. But there wasn’t. To her, my past was simply that: my past.

  “It doesn’t bother you, knowing that I’m a conman?”

  She nibbled at the inside of her cheek, her thoughts clearly working behind those expressive eyes. “I suppose it did, at first. I wondered if you were playing me that night in the bar.”

  “You were playing me, remember?”

  “We were playing each other.”

  I inclined my head in agreement. “You were a natural. If I’d met you during one of my cons, I’m not sure I would have caught on to your game right away.”

  “I’ve been told I’m good at this job because of a certain detachment I apparently exude.”

  I tilted my head as I regarded her. “I wouldn’t call it detachment. There is a certain coolness, though.”

  “It’s my reluctance to allow people to get close to me. Someone in the Navy once told me I was a cold bitch.”

  “Little did that person know that you’re actually a ball of emotion just looking for a way out.”

  Tears burned in her eyes. She turned away, going to the fridge to get something she apparently couldn’t find. I waited, aware of the emotional fight going on inside of her. When she did turn, I was almost grateful to see the tears on her eyelashes.

  “How do you see through me like that?”

  “It’s my job to read people.”

  She nodded. “I wish you’d stop doing it to me.”

  I turned to the stove and concentrated on stirring the tomato sauce for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just…even my mom can’t read me the way you do sometimes. It’s a little unnerving.”

  “It’s experience.”

  I glanced at her and saw the blush that touched her cheeks. She reached up and brushed at the few tears that had escaped her eyes, moving around me to grab a few plates out of the cupboard on her way to set the table.

  “What’s it like, being with a woman just because she can give you something?”

  “Aren’t we all like that? Isn’t marriage just a legalized way for a man to make a woman into his sex slave, his housekeeper, and his nanny?”

  She snorted. “That’s a pretty cynical way of looking at romance.”

  “Romance is just a scam. Any man can bring a woman flowers, tell her the things she wants to hear. The problem is, most men don’t. That’s what opens the door for a guy like me.”

  “How many women have you scammed?”

  I shrugged. “Fifteen.”

  I could feel her eyes on me, feel the weight of her shock. “That’s quite a few.”

  “I didn’t sleep with them all, if that’s what you’re thinking. Three were elderly women who thought I was their grandson. T
wo were sick women who simply wanted someone to hold their hands.”

  “That leaves ten.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you remember any of their names?”

  “I remember them all. And I remember exactly how much money I took each for. Do you want the list?”

  She shook her head. “Did you love any of them?”

  “I cared quite deeply for most of them. But love is just another of those greeting card company jokes.”

  She snorted again, but she didn’t comment.

  “These women wouldn’t have let me do what I did unless they got off on the attention I showered on them. And I never took more than each woman could afford.”

  “Even the dying ones?”

  “Especially the dying ones. I do have a moral code.”

  She openly laughed then. “A conman with a moral code. That’s new.”

  “I do, actually. I don’t take more than they can afford, I never tell them a lie bigger than my real name, and I don’t hurt children in any way.”

  “You don’t hurt children. What about these women’s children? What about their heirs?”

  “Grown children are fair game. But I don’t target women with small children.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “And I don’t take anything they don’t offer me of their free will.”

  “What does that mean? You take their money, their jewels. One complaint against you said that you took a boat belonging to the victim’s grown son.”

  “Yes. But they offer those things to me. The boat was in the son’s name, but his mother paid all the bills on it and she was tired of him freeloading off her.”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t stop him from trying to press charges.”

  “But they didn’t stick, did they?”

  She didn’t argue that point. But she was watching me, her eyes filled with curiosity and something else, something dark. “How did you get into this?”

  I turned off the heat under the chicken, pushing the pan away to slow the cooking. The tomato sauce was finished, so I was just waiting on the rice to finish in the pressure cooker. I turned, leaning against the counter to regard her.

  “My dad wanted me to get a business degree, to work in the same real estate bullshit he did. I wasn’t interested. I drifted after high school, took odd jobs here and there, enrolled in half a dozen trade courses before dropping out. I couldn’t focus on anything knowing what those boys had done to my sister, knowing she’d never do the things she’d wanted so desperately to do with her life before it all went to hell. I couldn’t…” I stopped, dragged my fingers through my hair as I remembered those days. “I made a mistake, got myself arrested. And this woman, a lawyer with the public defender’s office, took an interest in me.”

  “She was your first victim?”

  “We call them targets.”

  She made a gesture of amusement, shaking her head even as she waited for me to go on.

  “She made the arrest go away, took me in and taught me things about the law, about humanity, about a woman’s body that came in handy.”

  “What did you take from her?”

  She seemed deeply invested in my answer, but I wasn’t sure what it was she wanted to hear.

  “I took a check for twenty-five thousand dollars she offered me and her good luck wishes.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “It’s not what you think, Erin. She’s a good woman. We still talk from time to time.”

  “Do you keep in touch with all your victims?”

  “She wasn’t my victim. She was my teacher.”

  She grunted, moving away from the table with a little push that made the cutlery rattle. “However you reconcile it with yourself.”

  “I’m not reconciling anything. It’s the truth.”

  “You use people, Boone.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re using me.”

  “I am.”

  She stopped, staring at me like she couldn’t believe I’d admit it. But what was the point in lying?

  “You’re the only thing keeping my past from haunting me, Erin. You’re stopping these people from turning their evidence over to the right authorities. In that, I am using you.”

  “Then it’s all selfish.”

  “Everything anyone does is selfish, isn’t it? You’re helping me because you want to be the hero and save the boss’s daughter. Isn’t that selfish?”

  “No. That’s about McKelty Matthews.”

  “That’s about furthering your career.”

  She shook her head vigorously enough to knock the slowly drying strands form the back of her skull. But I could see a concession in her eyes, an understanding that I was right, partially at least.

  “I want to protect that little girl.”

  “So do I. But not at the risk of going to jail.”

  “That’s you, Boone. Not me.”

  She walked out of the room, anger in her steps. I watched her go, suddenly lacking in the appetite that had been raging out of control just a short time before. I packed up the food and put it in the fridge untouched, wondering what the hell was the matter with me. Why did it bother me what that woman thought of me? She was just another mark.

  But I did care. And that was going to spell trouble sometime soon.

  I was restless on the couch, tossing and turning on the narrow space as evening became night and night became the darkest hours before dawn. I could hear her in her bedroom, found myself straining my ears to hear the telltale sounds of a nightmare. But I got the impression she wasn’t sleeping, either.

  I was surprised when I heard her bare feet moving quietly over the carpet and found her shape looming over me.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  She shifted slightly from foot to foot. “I can’t…I…would you come into the bedroom, please?”

  I sat up quickly, glancing toward the open bedroom door. “Is something wrong?”

  “I just…I was wondering if you’d sit in the chair. Like you did before. I can’t sleep.”

  “You want me to sit in the chair?”

  She waved her hand, the movement quick, agitated. “Never mind.”

  She turned to storm out of the room. I got up and rushed up behind her, careful not to touch her. “I’d be happy to sit in the chair if it’ll help you sleep.”

  “It helped last night,” she said, looking back at me. “At least, it seems like it did.”

  She went back into her room, climbing into bed with her heavy bathrobe still tied over her slight body. I sat in the same chair where I’d slept the night before, my sore back remembering the straight edges and lack of padding. I watched her settle down, watched her fight with her pillows until they were in the position she wanted. She was silent for a few minutes, the sound of her breathing the only sound in the room. But then she sat up.

  “This is stupid,” she announced.

  “What is?”

  “I can’t sleep because…” She stopped herself, clearly thinking better of telling me the real reason she couldn’t sleep. She tilted her head thoughtfully, studying me from across the room. “I had a panic attack today. It’s the first I’ve had since the first weeks of boot camp years go.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Someone touched me without asking and he reminded me of one of my attackers.”

  She was very matter of fact about it. I wished I could see her face clearly, wished I could read the look in her eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Every time I think I’m getting better, something like this sets me back. I’m beginning to think I’ll never be a normal person again.”

  “You are a normal person, Erin. You just have different baggage than other women.”

  She made a sound like laughter, but not really. “Doesn’t that make me different?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  She tossed hers
elf back against her pillows with a heavy sigh. “You make it so hard to get a straight answer.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “What would you have told your sister?”

  That caught me a little by surprise. I leaned forward, resting my hands on my knees. “My sister? I would have told her to fuck them all. I would have told her that no one mattered but her, so why was she comparing herself to everyone else? In my mind, she was perfect. No one else compared to her.”

  Erin moved a little, the sound of rustling clothing distinct in the small bedroom. “She was lucky to have you.”

  “She didn’t seem to think so.”

  “She was. She just…it’s hard to live with the memories of something like this.”

  “She wouldn’t let me touch her.” I could hear the pain in my own voice. I wasn’t surprised when she sat up. “I surprised her once, came up behind her and touched her shoulders. She hid on the floor of her closet for hours afterward, crying and rocking herself. It was the last time I touched her before…before that night.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All I wanted to do was comfort her.”

  “It’s hard to comfort someone who’s so mortifyingly afraid of being touched.”

  I nodded. “I used to sit outside her bedroom door, tapping on the door softly every once in a while so that she would know I was still there. I thought it offered her comfort. Maybe it just frightened her more.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “She didn’t speak the last year of her life. Didn’t get out of bed most days. The doctors…they wanted to lock her away, but I thought that was worse than what those boys had done to her, to take her away from what little she had left that was familiar.” I sighed, the memory too heavy on my shoulders. “She was all I had. My dad was a workaholic before it happened. He was ten times worse after. We were alone all the time, trying to survive just the two of us. But I was only seventeen. I didn't know what to do.”

  She was quiet for a long time. Then she sighed softly. “Could I tell you what I need you to do?”

  “Please do.”

  “I want you to sleep here with me. But, please, don’t touch me.”

  The last was spoken quickly, her voice a little higher pitched. Her request surprised me. But what surprised me more was the way my pulse sped up a little just at the thought of lying near her.