Angel of Redemption

by J. A. Little

  “A dragon?” I ask, biting my lip and staring at the angry, beaked creature in the center of a Celtic knot. Below are two smaller dragons facing each other.

  “Uh, yeah,” Dean acknowledges. His tone is guarded, and I’m afraid to look at him. I have no idea if he’s annoyed with me or not, but he hasn’t told me to mind my own business yet, so I keep going.

  I can feel the tissue damage under the ink. The design of the band makes it hard to see, but it’s definitely worse on this side. I try not to linger too long. Dean lets out a heavy breath, and I get the impression that I’m pushing my luck. I can tell this isn’t comfortable for him. I slide my hand down to his forearm, to the scorpion I’ve seen before. It seems like it might be the safest to ask about.

  “Do all your tattoos symbolize something?” I wonder, glancing up at him. He nods slowly and runs his free hand through his hair. “What about this one?” I tap on his forearm. “Why a scorpion?”

  “Scorpions are aggressive, defensive, and solitary,” he says simply. When I look up for further explanation, he shrugs. “That’s what I felt like after I found out about Steph and Abigail. I felt poisonous,” he explains quietly. “Like my whole life was just…wrong. I learned from her early on that I have nothing good to offer anyone. I just wanted to be alone—to isolate myself from everyone else.”

  I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t understand it. I can’t reconcile what he thinks of himself with everything he’s told me. He was a kid who fell in love with the wrong girl. He tried to save her. He tried to protect her. He made bad decisions, but he’s not a bad person. Why on earth would he think he’s poisonous?

  Again, my gaze shifts, this time lower. Right across his hipbone are words, but I can’t make them out. They sit at the tip of where his scarring appears to end.

  “What does it say?”

  Dean shifts and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Indulgeo Mihi.”

  “What does it mean?” I grind my teeth together when I realize I’ve voiced my thought out loud. Dean doesn’t answer at first. I blink slowly and then glance up toward his face. He definitely heard me; his eyes are blazing with some unknown emotion. Or possibly several.

  “Forgive me,” he rasps.

  I brush my thumb over the script and feel him bristle. I close my eyes and let my touch drift to the scarring. It travels all the way up his side. I find myself mesmerized by the feel of it.

  “Forgive you for what?” I ask gently, my hand beginning to wander upward along the scarring. I’m startled when his hand shoots out and grips my fingers, squeezing slightly.

  “Don’t!”

  “I’m sorry!” I cry, snatching my hand back as quickly as I can and taking a step backward. Dean pulls his shirt on over his head, yanking it down and effectively ending our moment. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.

  “It’s fine,” he says, but it’s obviously not. He turns away and returns to the kitchen. I follow behind him. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Dean?” I rest my hand on his now-clothed back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be intrusive. Don’t be mad at me, please,” I beg.

  “I’m not mad, Kayla. Most of the women I spend the night with are fascinated by them,” he says bluntly.

  I flinch a little. Ouch. Clearly, I pushed him too far.

  “It’s not the tattoos that fascinate me, Dean,” I respond sharply. “But thanks for letting me know where I stand.” I want to storm away, but I have no place to go—this is his apartment.

  His hands are resting flat on the countertop. He shakes his head. “That’s not what I was doing.”

  “Really? You didn’t just lump me into the group of women you’ve fucked?”

  “No!” he shouts, turning around. “I wasn’t. You’re nothing like them. That’s the problem.”

  “Oh my God,” I laugh humorlessly. “You know what? I’m just going to call a cab.” I turn to leave. I need to get dressed. I feel too vulnerable standing here the way I am. I need to get away from this man whose mood swings frustrate me to no end. I only take two steps before I’m abruptly pulled backward.

  “Stop. Please, just stop.” His breath is on my ear, his arm around my waist, and my back is flush against his chest.

  “Let me go,” I beg. I can’t be this close to him. It makes me want more. And he’s made it quite clear that more isn’t an option.

  “I will, just don’t… That didn’t come out right, Kayla. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I’m shit with words.”

  “That hurt,” I whimper.

  “I know,” he admits. “It was meant to.”

  “What?” I squawk, struggling to break free. His arm tightens, though, and I’m no match for his strength. I can feel his heart thumping against my back. He’s breathing heavily. When I lower my head, I realize that the shirt I’m wearing has ridden up because of the way he grabbed me. My legs are completely exposed, as is my underwear. His pinky and ring finger are pressing against my pubic bone. Maybe I should have kept the sweatpants on.

  Dean’s hand grips the shirt tightly, and there’s no way for him to hide what’s happening to him as he hardens against me. Feeling a sudden neediness between my legs, I push my hips backward into him. His hand slips a little lower—right there. All he’d have to do is—

  “Fuck!” he growls. His hips pull away from my backside, and he abruptly lets me go. I stand, frozen to the spot, afraid to turn around. When I finally do, he’s not facing me anymore. He’s staring at the coffeepot.

  We don’t speak for what feels like forever. I don’t know what to say. That was really awkward. I knew I turned him on at the restaurant after he saved me from Brody, but that felt different—maybe because we didn’t really know each other then, and we weren’t friends? My mind is going crazy trying to figure out where we stand.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles, breaking the silence.

  “It’s okay,” I answer automatically. But it’s not. “What’s going on, Dean?”

  His eyes dart to me and then back to the brewing coffee.

  “Nothing. It’s just… My past isn’t easy to talk about.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. What’s going on between us? I don’t understand.”

  He shakes his head. “I like you. But…I’m trying to be a good friend. I just don’t know how. I’m not good at it.”

  “Yes, you are,” I protest. “You’ve been there for me every time I’ve needed you over the last few weeks. You’ve listened to my blathering and blubbering. That’s a good friend in my book.”

  “I’m not,” he growls. “I have a fucked-up past and serious mental health issues.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “And I don’t? None of us have perfect lives, Dean. I’ve gone from one fucked-up relationship to the next. My mother, my father, my stepfather, every boyfriend I’ve ever had…Brody.” Dean’s fists ball up at the mention of my abusive ex-whatever-the-hell-he-was. “We are who we are because of what we’ve gone through. You are able to help those boys because of your experiences. You’re not still out there fucking around and making shitty decisions. You’re helping people. You were a kid. Why are you so hard on yourself?”

  Silence again. In my periphery, I can see him considering what to say next.

  “I got into a car accident when I was sixteen,” he breathes. I swallow and shove my thumbnail into my mouth so I don’t ask a million questions. “People…got hurt. It was all my fault.” His face looks so pained, I can feel it. I think about the scars covering his body.

  “It was bad?” I practically whisper. I know it must have been. Scars like his don’t come from a fender bender.

  Dean clenches his jaw. “Yeah. It was bad.”

  The coffeepot beeps, letting us know it’s ready. Dean pulls two cups out of a cabinet and fills them. “Did you sleep okay?” he asks, handing me a cup. And that’s the end of it. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.

  “Yes, thank you. You didn’t have to give up your bed, though.
”

  “Yes, I did. You wouldn’t have wanted me in there, I would have stolen all the blankets.” We stare at each other before he moves away. It has not escaped my attention that he completely avoided my question about the sexual encounter we just had, but I’m not going to go there at the moment. There’s a reason he doesn’t want to address it, and I have to respect that…for now.

  “So, um. I live alone and, well, I’m a bachelor.” He glances at me sheepishly.

  “Okay…” I draw the word out, wondering where he’s going with this.

  “I wasn’t really expecting company.” He reaches into another cabinet and holds up a box of Pop-Tarts, shrugging. “It’s all I have for breakfast. Unless you wanna go out.”

  I let out a high-pitched laugh and cover my mouth with my hand. “I haven’t had a Pop-Tart since college.” He starts to put them away, but I stop him. “Wait, give ‘em here. How about I make you breakfast? Where’s your toaster?” He hands me the box and points to a silver toaster next to the microwave. It’s kind of gross looking, but I’m not going to tell him that. I rip open the foil packet and slide two tarts into the toaster slots. “Do you like them warm, hot, or burnt?”

  “Slightly burnt.”

  “My kinda man,” I blurt out. I don’t look at him for fear that he’ll see my embarrassment. Instead, I watch the coils in the toaster go from black to red. When the edges of the Pop-Tarts start to darken, I flip the trigger, launching them upward. After putting them onto plates, we sit down at the small, round table.

  “You make some good Pop-Tart, woman,” he groans, biting into one.

  “Thanks,” I laugh. “It’s good to know I didn’t slave over a hot toaster for a bad breakfast.”

  He takes another bite and gulps his coffee. “So, I can take you back to your car. Do you want to take a shower before you leave?”

  Now he looks like a little boy asking an embarrassing question. It’s very cute. Although the idea of getting naked in Dean’s apartment is appealing, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. There’s only so much unresolved sexual tension a girl can take.

  “I have to go home and change anyway.” I shrug.

  “Okay.”

  As we finish breakfast, Dean tells me about the incident with Jax. He’s worried about where he’ll end up. He doesn’t come right out and ask, but I think he’s hoping I’ll be able to find something out. I also think he’s talking about work so that we can forget what happened this morning.

  Afterward, I grab my clothes and slip them on in the bathroom while Dean gets dressed in his bedroom before taking me back to The Carlyle. He parks and walks me to my car.

  “I’ll call you later,” he says quietly as I climb in.

  “Okay.” I smile at him and am rewarded with a sexy little smirk. “Dean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  He chuckles. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

  Chapter 24

  Kayla

  The very first thing I do when I get into my office is look up the Bible verse scripted across Dean’s chest.

  Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

  I frown. Now that I know about the accident, his guilt makes sense.

  “What in the world are you looking at?” Dana asks, startling me.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, closing my browser. “What’s up?”

  I keep busy enough during the day to sort of keep my mind off Dean—at least for a little while. I return phone calls, schedule visits, and write up reports. I also do a little digging. Jaxon Hedrick’s caseworker is Frances Williams. I don’t know her that well, but I think Dana does.

  Sara wanders in around lunchtime, sipping from a Subway cup.

  “And where were you last night, missy?” she asks, putting one hand on her hip.

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  “I was talking to Andy this morning, and he said you went to your mom’s and never made it home.”

  “Why were you talking to Andy?”

  “We were at court. Stop trying to change the subject. He asked me if you were seeing someone.”

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” I laugh.

  “So, where were you?”

  She’s not going to give this up. I have no reason to lie to her. I’ve crashed at both Sara and Warren’s houses because I was too drunk, too tired, or just didn’t want to go home. It’s no big deal.

  “With Dean Wyatt.”

  Sara’s mouth opens slightly. She licks her lips and then smacks them together a few times. “I’m sorry, say that again?”

  “I was with Dean Wyatt,” I repeat.

  “At Wyatt House?”

  “No, at his place.”

  “Holy shit! Really? When did you start dating him?” she asks excitedly.

  “No, no, no. Not dating. We’re not dating,” I rush out.

  “You’re just sleeping with him?” she whispers. “Oh my God, Kayla. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Sara! I’m not sleeping with him, either.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I was with him. My mom and Richard totally fucked me up last night and I accidentally called Dean instead of Andy. We’re friends. He came and picked me up and took me to his place. Nothing happened.”

  “Wait, what? What happened with your mom and Richard? No, hold up, I want to hear about Dean first. You stayed the night?”

  “Yeah. He slept on the couch.”

  “No way.” She shakes her head furiously. “A guy like him doesn’t bring a girl back to his place just to talk.”

  I think back to his comment about the women he’s slept with and frown.

  “Apparently, he does. We talked until about two, he lent me some clothes, and we slept in separate rooms.”

  Sara takes a long, slow sip of her soda without taking her eyes off of me. “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why?’”

  “Kayla,” she says seriously, taking a deep breath through her nose. “The man is freaking gorgeous and you haven’t gotten any in a long, long time. I know it went through your mind.”

  “We aren’t like that, Sara. We work together.”

  “First of all, no, you don’t. Second, even if you did, who cares?”

  “Um, the administration.”

  “Oh my God. They may not ‘approve’ of it,” she says, using air quotes. “But it’s not against any rules. People have workplace romances all the time. He’s not your boss, you’re not his. It’s totally doable.” She giggles. “He’s doable.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Shut up. You know you were thinking it, too. Seriously, Kay, why not?”

  I look around nervously. There’s no one else in the office. Sara’s my best friend. If I can’t tell her, who else can I tell?

  “I want him bad,” I groan, resting my head on my desk.

  “See?” she grins. “There’s my girl. So what’s stopping you?”

  “He is,” I answer. Sara looks confused. “He just wants to be friends.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend? Jesus Christ, Kayla. No guy ever just wants to be friends.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Sara. That’s what he said. I’m not going to force it.”

  “You don’t have to force it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t show him what he’s missing.” She sticks her tongue out and bites down on it while waggling her eyebrows at me. It makes me laugh. “What’d you guys talk about until two in the morning anyway?”

  Now that is not something I’m going to tell her.

  “I guess two of his kids got into a fight last weekend over a girl and death threats were thrown around.”

  “No shit? Wow. Kid get removed?”

  “Yeah, and Dean’s upset about it. Like, really upset. The kid’s been there for three years.”

  “That sucks. What else?”

 
“He listened to me babble about my messed-up family.”

  “Oh, yeah. What the hell happened?”

  I spend the next twenty minutes recounting what’s been going on with my sister and my mom and Richard.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You really turned down five G’s?”

  “Sara!”

  She laughs, but it’s shortly followed by a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, Kay. I know it’s not funny. Why don’t you tell them to go fuck themselves and just be done with it? I mean, really, they’re not worth it.”

  “Claire.”

  She nods in understanding. I can’t abandon my sister. Something’s going on with her, and she needs me around. I just need to figure out how to help her survive the next fourteen months of her life in a household with Richard Graeme, asshole extraordinaire.

  The rest of the day passes with little action, but I know that’s about to change when I walk through the door and find Andy waiting for me.

  “I texted you,” I say before he has a chance to open his mouth.

  “One text, saying you were with a friend. No text saying you were staying out. Nothing to give me any idea of where to look if you didn’t come home.”

  “Oh, come on, Andy. I went to The Carlyle.”

  “To drop off Claire!” he says, raising his voice. “And then you didn’t come home. Where the hell did you go?”

  “You wanna know every time I hook up with a guy? Jesus, Andy, I’m twenty-seven years old. If I want to stay out all night, I will.”

  “I just want to know you’re safe.” His voice softens. “You have no idea how much I worry about you.” The sincerity in his expression is enough to squelch my defensiveness. I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him tightly.

  “I’m sorry. I do know. I should have called.” I know he’s waiting for me to tell him where I was, but I’m not going to. It’s not about trust—I trust him, but I know how protective Andy can get, and I don’t want him confronting Dean.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask, letting go of him and wandering to the fridge. Andy sighs, but he lets it go.