A Beautiful Nightmare: A Novel

by Shana Vanterpool

  My hands were shaking and nothing I did made this real. I glanced at him to find he was staring, waiting, bracing himself against the fallout. So I gave it to him.

  “You’re not touching me again. I would rather risk your father than let you touch me.” I ignored his rage contorted face, hurriedly continuing. “This may sound like the last thing I should be saying, but out of all of the people in my life, I thought you would be the last one to betray me. Locking me up? That’s insane. But pretending to kill me to save me? That’s unforgiveable. You erased my existence. You killed me, Dash, even if you didn’t actually do so.”

  “I saved you. Those men would have put a bullet in your brain and left you in the bottom of Lake Michigan. They weren’t coming to do anything else.”

  “You took away my life!”

  He stared at me the way I stared at him. He thought I was being insane, on a different wave length—I wasn’t getting it.

  “I put mine on the line,” he countered, eyes ablaze. “I’m marked now. I did everything I could possibly do to keep you alive. Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to us if they find us? I broke the bond. I betrayed my father and the boss. My body parts will be used to burn their fires this winter.”

  I covered my ears. “Stop.”

  “Yours will be ground up and spread on the family sheep farm southwest of here.”

  “No!” He was lying.

  “I’ve seen it happen,” he hissed. “I’ve told you what I’ve seen. The sheep will eat your body parts, and shit you out.”

  I plugged my ears, humming Over the Rainbow to block out his lies.

  He was grabbing me suddenly, trying to tear my arms away. I fought him as best I could, until I was gasping for breath and he was holding me in his arms as I sobbed against him.

  “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.” I tried to shove him off, but he held me tighter. “Your life is mine. I’ve done everything I can to protect you. I will protect you, my queen, with everything I have.”

  “This isn’t real.”

  He put his mouth tenderly over my ear. “This is real. You can make everything else a lie, but not this. You’ll get killed pretending this isn’t true.” His voice broke. “And that can’t happen. I need you. I’ve loved you from the moment I walked into your office and you smiled at me. You remember when we met?”

  I tried to block the images from my mind. Of sheep eating my brain and Dash’s heart burning in a fireplace. A spark of terror moved through me, a faint shimmer of fear that was finally starting to understand what he was telling me. “I can’t right now.”

  “Try. Think of the day we met over a year ago. I was at the end of my rope. I knew what would happen if I was caught, but I was tired of being treated like an embarrassing defect by my father. Pretending I was the soulless son of the kingpin was growing harder and harder. My employees were noticing my deterioration. The board had a meeting and spoke to me.” He groaned. “I was so fucking embarrassed.” His arms wrapped around me. I got the feeling he was holding on to me now.

  Around my growing fear—it seemed the more he spoke of this truth, the bigger it grew—I fought through to the moment we met.

  ***

  One year ago

  I was at my desk in my downtown office.

  The steam from my coffee drifted into the air, and the amazingly rich aroma helped calm my nerves.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. My back burned, making my eyes water. I hated feeling weak, despised it, but I felt that way this morning. Denny had gotten the best of me last night. For months he’d been distant. It was as if I wasn’t even there. He came home late, and I did too, but our usual routine of unwinding on the couch with a glass of wine and talking about our day, had turned into screaming at the other until we passed out in a rage. I knew what happened when we both got mad. It got physical. Every time. It was a sick feeling to know that the moment I hit my boyfriend, he was going to hit back, and yet I still risked it.

  But there was a limit. And when you’re on your hands and knees begging the man you loved to stop hitting you, you stopped.

  I lifted my shirt and blinked my tears away, prodding the bruises on my ribs in horror. I loved Denny. But he had me wrapped around his life like a dog with a foot of rope. I could only go so far and do so much until he pulled me back. But I wasn’t guiltless in all of this. I pushed and pushed, I fought back knowing it would only hurt us both later. I screamed and raged, and I always threw the first punch. The reward came later, when he walked into the house with sorrow and regret on his face. He’d apologize, I would too, and then we’d make love for hours, kissing the bruises we’d given the other.

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure if I should be on this side of my desk, or on the other.

  But last night, Denny hadn’t apologized. He’d slept on the couch, and was gone this morning. I wanted to make his life hell. Call him over and over again, call him at work at his father’s law office, text him pictures of my bruises. Instead, I was at work, and I had a new patient coming in later this morning who deserved my full attention.

  I lifted the cover on my appointment book to read his name again. It was an unusual name, but still somehow commanding. Dash McKing 10:00 A.M. Monday. Courtney Waters was at eleven-fifteen. And then lunch. Three more patients. And then home. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I was looking more toward meeting a new patient. A new lost soul. Excitement fizzled through me, making me feel a spark of something pleasant for the first time in months.

  My phone rang on my desk, and I answered it with a quiet, “Hashawaye.”

  “Mr. McKing is here for his ten o’clock,” Frida, my assistant, chirped.

  I checked the time. 9:59. “Did his insurance check out?”

  “He paid in cash.”

  I paused, surprise taking my words away. I was flexible. If a patient had no insurance, I offered a payment plan unlike most therapists, and to me, it wasn’t entirely about the money. It was about helping others find in themselves the tools that helped them ground their selves. If a patient had insurance, and they took months to pay, I waited. But hardly anyone came in here and paid premium in cash for an appointment. “Well, that’s different.”

  “He’s different.”

  I frowned disapprovingly, hearing the judgement in her voice. “Did he fill out his paperwork?”

  “Coming in with it now.”

  I hung up, and waited. A second later she came into my office with a smile. Frida was a wonderful assistant and secretary. Genial, attentive to detail, and sharp as a tack, she worked to support herself following her divorce. She was in her late forties, but still somehow spritely, a loss, in my opinion, to any man.

  “Here you are. I’ll show him in in fifteen?”

  I took the paperwork and looked it over, absentmindedly reading his answers. Male, age thirty-one, no medical allergies or recent hospital care. His answers were vague and minimal. I couldn’t gleam anything from them. “You can bring him in now.”

  “Yes, Miss Hashawaye.” She left, leaving my door slightly ajar.

  I closed the file and set it down, preferring to hear the basics from him. Sometimes I could take more from the insignificant details than the larger details patients led with. Those insignificant details happened every day, and sometimes were as important as anything else.

  Before my new patient entered, I closed the blinds slightly, grabbed my notebook, and pen, and sat back down, crossing my legs and instantly regretting my outfit. I’d thrown it on after my run in a daze, wanting out of my house and to work as soon as possible. My flared khaki’s and long-sleeved cream-colored top suddenly felt frumpy and lackluster. I had no makeup on, and my hair was in a messy bun. I undid it quickly, and fluffed it out, letting the dark blonde strands fall around my shoulders. One glance at my computer monitor, and I cringed, looking red-faced and bland in my reflection.

  Frida’s voice drifted into my office from down the hall. The sound of feet on carpet followed. I pushed my inade
quacies from my mind.

  Frida entered first and gestured with a hand. “Miss Hashawaye, Mr. McKing. Would you like any coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you,” came a deep, deep voice.

  A man stepped in after Frida mumbled her goodbye, and closed the door behind him, leaving us alone.

  He was tall, so tall; I felt immediately small. He wore all black in a tight fitted suit that accentuated his long legs and torso. He looked around quickly, and then his eyes fell on me, and the air in my lungs vanished.

  I stared, stuck, at by far the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life. Heat nestled in my stomach and my lungs ached for breath. Sharp handsome angled face. His eyes were so light brown they reminded me of butterscotch, a delicious warm gold. His hair was dark, his lashes too, a lush mixture of brown and black. His jaw was peppered in a light stubble, and the warm spicy scent of his cologne filled my office in a way that made me want to breathe it in. I didn’t want to look away, but I knew he was waiting for me to talk, to point him in the right direction.

  To be a therapist, instead of an ogling idiot.

  I cleared my throat and forced myself to smile. “Hi.” I cringed. Hi? I felt like a swooning tween. Any minute now I’d scream and faint. “Good morning, Mr. McKing. My name is Kinley. You can have a seat in either chair, and we’ll get started.” There. That was better.

  He stared into my eyes for a moment longer, and then sat in the chair on my left. Most people picked the right chair. By the door. Interesting.

  Once seated, we both stared at the other again. He was so much man in a little chair. He’d unbuttoned the top two buttons on his black shirt, and it hung open, showing off his pale chest. His black tie was loosened, blending in with his shirt and suit. His large hands gripped the handles on the chair. His watch was shimmering gold, and I skimmed his fingers, finding them long and manicured. He didn’t do hard labor. But the word Cartier was transcribed on his gold watch face, so he made money somehow.

  My throat was burning for something wet. I reached for my coffee cup and tore my eyes from him, feeling the need to remind myself that I had a boyfriend. I loved Denny. Even if he made my heart bleed. Feeling empty suddenly, I set my cup down and shook it off. I shifted to get comfortable, but my side ached where Denny had punched, and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I was falling under the weight of my relationship. I had to get it together.

  “Would you prefer me to refer to you by your first or last name?” I asked, speaking slowly so I didn’t break.

  “Dash is fine,” he replied.

  “Dash it is then.” I wrote his name down in bold black ink and then underlined it, staring at the four letters as I spoke. “What brings you here?”

  He took a moment to answer. He sighed heavily. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  I looked away from his name and risked his eyes. They were so gold and glossy; they made it hard to breathe. “Why not?”

  His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. “Let’s just say I’m worried about what my family will think.”

  “That’s completely understandable. A lot of people are afraid of judgement and opening up. I want you to know that everything you say is between you and I, unless it’s dangerous to your health or others,” I added, because I had to.

  He glanced down at his watch, and then ran his hand through his dark hair. “I’m aware of my rights.”

  “What brings you here?” I repeated, softening my tone. There was something in his eyes, in the coiling of his muscles, in the way he looked ready to run, that made me want to make him comfortable.

  “I … don’t … know … what to do.” He let out a breath and everything he was feeling spilled from his eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  “Okay.” I set my pen down and gave him my full attention. “What in particular is difficult right now?”

  “I’m crazy,” he breathed, eyes burning gold. “I’ve been crazy my entire life, but it’s different now. I’m an adult, and yet I don’t have a grip on my life. I’ve never been in a position to talk to anyone. I wasn’t … allowed, so to speak. I can’t control it anymore.” He fell forward, putting his face in his hands.

  I stared, my heart in my throat. His emotions were a thick cloud over the entire room. His hands shook holding his face, and his back bowed, as if the pressure inside of him was taking hold. “I don’t prefer the term crazy. It’s used too often with no understanding.”

  He dropped his hands and stared at the ground. “I understand it.”

  I felt my control of this meeting slipping. I was the one he came to see. “Is there something in your life that’s difficult right now?”

  He bolted to his feet and headed for the door. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  In retrospect, that was a defining moment in our relationship. I should have let him leave. If I had, I wouldn’t be in his arms right now, locked in this tower above his gangster father. But something inside of me steeled the moment I thought of him leaving like this. My stomach dropped, and though I didn’t understand why, I jumped up too. I didn’t want him to leave.

  “No,” I blurted, blushing scarlet, but forcing myself to continue. “Don’t leave. We haven’t even gotten started.”

  He paused with his hand on the door.

  Fearing my time running out, I went to him. I placed my hand on his shoulder. The smell of his cologne got thicker, harder to overlook. Spicier. “Come sit back down.”

  He looked at me. This close up, his eyes were butterscotch. His black lashes were long and thick, and all I could think about was how gorgeous he was. That was the start of my problem. Dash made it possible to forget everything else. Even then, all I could think about was him. Not my boyfriend, not my bruised body, not that my life was getting harder to breathe in. It was just him.

  And it felt beautiful.

  “You won’t speak to anyone about anything I say?” his deep voice asked.

  “I won’t say a thing to anyone. I promise.” Who was there to tell?

  He nodded once, and stepped back, making my hand slide from his shoulder, down his bicep, and to his elbow. He was a good foot taller than me, and being so close to him, he towered over me like a dark omen.

  I stepped back as well, giving him room to reclaim his seat. After I was settled back at my desk, I gave up, and bundled my hair back into its messy bun, sighing in relief when a rush of cool air kissed the back of my neck. Once somewhat calmed, I faced him again, finding him watching me.

  “You’re beautiful either way,” he said, eyes moving from me to my hair to my neck. “No need to make yourself uncomfortable for me.”

  His comment sent a rush of fire and sickness over me. My skin burned and my stomach knotted. Honestly. How old was I? But that’s how Dash was. He said what was on his mind, and from the moment we met, he had never held his tongue.

  “Um … thank you, Dash.” I fumbled with my pen and crossed my legs, drawing his attention to my heels. They were plain nude pumps, and I wished I’d worn something sexy.

  His mouth smirked, drawing my attention to his amazing lips. His dark gold eyes seemed to liquefy. “You’re welcome, Kinley.”

  You have a boyfriend, I reminded myself angrily. Sure, he hadn’t looked at me like that, like I was a meal to devour, I couldn’t betray him. To remove the temptation—even then I knew I was tempted—I tucked my legs under my chair and steered the conversation back on track. “Dash, you’re not crazy. Crazy is being unable to understand you need to talk to someone. Crazy is not making an appointment. You’re not crazy. Referring to your current state in negative ways only makes it harder to change it.”

  His cell phone rang suddenly, but he let it ring, staring at me as if my words were odd. I kept my expression neutral, feeling disgusted with myself and my reaction to him. He was clearly sick. He needed help. Not to be ogled. So I forced my reaction aside to give him what he needed.

  “I don’t think you understand. I can’t change this. I’ve been this way my ent
ire life. I will always be this way. That’s not the hardest part,” he continued, when I gave him a disapproving look. “The hardest part is not being able to be myself. My entire self. The part of me no one can handle. The man who does what he feels, instead of what everyone else would do. Keeping that man locked inside of me is getting harder and harder.”

  I was struck by the emotion pouring from him. It cracked in the air between us like lightning. I had this feeling that if I said one wrong word it would explode.

  “Well, why don’t we try it here? When you’re in my office you can be your absolute self.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.” His heavy gaze tried to warn me off.

  But something else, something like sadness and yearning in his gaze, made me want to ask for it. “I’ll take my chances.”

  And like a glove, Dash tore himself free, and flung his façade across the room. Glassy-eyed pain replaced the amber color in his eyes. His shoulders slouched, and he sunk lower in the seat. His suit was merely a costume. His eyes were gold and light and dark all at once. The angles on his face were stronger, creating shadows. The scent of his cologne made me squeeze my thighs together. Dash had been gorgeous when he came in here earlier. But that man had nothing on this one. This Dash was breathtaking. He made my blood burn. My heart beat faster. My mouth was dry, and even coffee wouldn’t quench this thirst.

  “You asked for it.” His eyes latched on mine.

  I swallowed hard and tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let me. From that moment on, Dash wouldn’t let me look away.

  And if I were being honest, I hadn’t tried that hard.

  ***

  Present

  I asked for it.

  He held me tighter, until our breaths had no choice but to conform to the other. “You were the first person I was ever able to be myself around. Even now, I hide nothing from you. I would never let anything happen to the woman who owns my soul.”

  The separation between the two personalities Dash existed as were severe and undeniable. Until this tower, I’d preferred the Dash in my arms. The man who felt so much and showed very little. He would walk into my office in his expensive suits and ties, and shed his mask time and time again. And he got sexier each time, until I was panting when he left, not hearing anything but my pounding pulse, begging me to do something. Touch him, kiss him, take him. Dash had made me feel wanted and desired. When our meetings were over my heart would crash into the ground. Those one hour appointments kept me going, when all Denny did was try to break me. The darker our relationship got, the more I yearned for Dash. For his deep voice, the scent of his cologne, the way he walked, but most of all, I craved the way he looked at me, how he was never late for an appointment, and could make me think of nothing else but him.