“Thank you.” Brooke walked around to the front of the couch and dropped down beside her best friend, for the first time remembering, “I thought you wanted to be on your way early this morning.” Neve had a show that evening and liked ample time to rehearse her hand-to-hand acrobatics routine with her partner in each new venue.
“I told Luca I should be ready by noon.” She gave a small smile. “Family emergency.”
“I wish you were my sister for real,” Brooke told her. “Not that it matters, because I love you like a sister.” And she had since elementary school.
“I love you, too.” Neve gave her a quick hug. “We’re going to get through this, like we get through all our tough times, together.”
“Exactly how did an allegation of one inappropriate sexual relationship multiply to plural inappropriate sexual relationships overnight?”
Neve let out a breath. “When you asked me to confirm a Facebook comment about you having sex with a minor, I found the one a boy made claiming his fifteen-year-old brother had sex with you. But I didn’t read any comments after that one. It wasn’t until after you went to bed that I took the time to read every single one.” She looked apologetic as she explained, “Turns out you were allegedly spotted skinny-dipping with a young boy down at Roger’s Pond.” She grimaced. “More than once.”
“This is out of control. I’ve never even been to Roger’s Pond.” Although growing up in the area, she’d heard lots of rumors about the popular make-out spot.
“It gets worse,” Neve warned. “A couple of kids commented about all the time you spend with Isaac Dufflen.”
“Poor Isaac.” One of her seventh graders. “The bullies are relentless in picking on him. He has a dysfunctional home life. I’ve tried to show him some extra attention at school.”
“Well, he didn’t help your case when he got on Facebook and told the bullies to, and I quote, ‘Leave Ms. Ellstein alone. She’s the best teacher ever and I love her.’ ”
No. Disbelief temporarily robbed Brooke of her ability to speak.
“Yeah.” Neve nodded. “The kids latched on to that and before long they had Isaac as another one of your conquests.”
The thought made her insides churn. “I would never…ever…” She wrapped her arms around herself.
“I know.” Neve shifted on the couch, practically vibrating with furious energy. “They’re vicious lies, and once this is over we’ll see that these kids pay for what they did. This is cyberbullying at its worst.”
And with those few words, Neve’s impassioned response helped Brooke put things into perspective. “While the kids obviously lied, I don’t believe they did it with malicious intent.” She held up her hand to silence Neve when she tried to interrupt.
“Yes, the students made poor decisions in the form of irresponsible comments without considering the consequences of their actions.” Consequences Brooke would pay. “The bigger problem here is people who take what’s written on the Internet as fact without seeking out information to substantiate erroneous claims. It’s the general population’s willingness to declare people guilty in the court of public opinion, based on limited information, without waiting for the results of a police investigation or the outcome of a trial. It’s politicians who’ll use any means necessary to discredit an opponent.” Even go after an innocent daughter.
“And this is not cyberbullying at its worst,” Brooke continued. “Cyberbullying at its worst is kids videotaping a drunken classmate who’s being sexually abused or assaulted rather than helping her. It’s posting that video to social media for all to see and writing nasty, inflammatory, intentionally hurtful comments to ruin her reputation. It’s humiliating that poor girl to the point she feels she has no other option than to end her life. That is cyberbullying at its worst. What’s happening to me, while difficult and frustrating and completely mortifying, is happening to a smart, self-assured adult with a good support system.” She reached for Neve’s hand and squeezed.
In the end, when the truth came out, this would serve as a valuable lesson. Hopefully students and their parents would learn from it.
An official-sounding knock drew Brooke’s attention to the door, and suddenly she no longer felt like a smart, self-assured adult. Panic gripped her by the throat and squeezed.
The police had come for her.
Chapter Four
The GPS guided Shane directly to Brooke’s address, but driving at a reduced speed until he’d acclimated to his decreased visual field and making three stops to stretch and exercise the feeling back into his leg had extended the trip to five and a half hours. A news van and a group of reporter types and photographers huddled together yelling made finding her condo in the rows of identical pale gray duplex units easier than expected.
He looked in the direction of their shouts to see the back of a police officer in the process of knocking on a door that had the words “Whore” and “Die bitch” painted across it in big black letters. “Shit.” Things were even worse than he’d thought.
Shane swerved into a vacant parking spot, turned off his old Jeep, hoping it didn’t give him trouble when he went to start her up again, and hurried to jump out of his vehicle to get to Brooke…remembering, when his upper body moved and his lower body didn’t, that his jumping and hurrying days were over. Determined that today would be an exception to his new normal, he grabbed his cane from the passenger seat and slid his stiff left leg out until his foot rested on the ground. Damn that hurt. He craved relief in pill form, but he was done living life in a narcotic-induced haze. So he breathed through the searing pain instead.
Standing there, waiting for his leg to accept his full weight, when he wanted to run to Brooke and pull her into his arms and reassure her that everything would be okay, was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
He took a tentative step. When the leg didn’t buckle, he took another step in the direction of the reporters then hesitated. His heart rate and respirations sped up. Anxiety and dread started to build. His soldier senses kicked in as he scanned for threats.
Damn, he hated crowds.
You’re back in the United States, he reminded himself, taking another step.
Crowds didn’t necessarily mean danger, distraction, and death…except sometimes they did.
They’re standing between you and Brooke.
That got him moving. Because nothing—nothing—was going to keep him from Brooke. He speed-limped forward, his eye locked onto the police officer, watching as the door opened, just enough for the cop to squeeze inside, before slamming shut.
He picked up his pace.
Once the news-skewing parasites realized where Shane was headed, they swarmed, sticking cellphones, recorders, and cameras in his face while shouting out questions and jockeying to get close to him.
He fought down the urge to beat them off.
“Are you going to visit Brooke Ellstein?”
“How long have you known Brooke?”
“Were you aware of her attraction to young boys?”
That last question sent his body into full alert, ready to inflict maximum damage at a moment’s notice, to fight to the death. Without conscious thought, his right hand squeezed into a tight fist, his nails bit into his palm. But he called on his years of military training to remain calm and focused on his mission as he shouldered through the crowd, throwing a few elbows, which weren’t nearly as satisfying as smashing his fist into someone’s face. But he wouldn’t be any help to Brooke if he landed his ass in jail.
When Shane reached the curb he dug deep, drawing power and volume from the depths of his soul, and yelled, “Back off.” Like an invisible force field had materialized behind him, they did.
He turned and proceeded to his destination.
The degrading graffiti someone had painted on her door made Shane want to rip the damn thing off its hinges and fling it across the parking lot. Or at the very least clean it up and repaint it, which was probably a more practical option.
With each step closer his anticipation escalated, and his palms grew damper. Brooke lived behind that door. His talisman. His oasis. The woman who’d kept him sane during the horrors and stress of his last deployment. After his injury he’d resigned himself to let her go. He wasn’t good enough for her, even more so now. She deserved so much better.
But as close as he was, the need to see her and touch her intensified with each step forward until nothing short of a bullet to the brain could keep him away.
He reached the door, and without allowing himself a chance to reconsider, he knocked.
No one answered.
He knocked again. Harder.
“Who is it?” a female voice called out.
He leaned in close and replied, “Shane,” as quietly as he could and still be heard through the door. If the damn reporters wanted to know who he was, they’d have to work for it.
The door opened and a shortish, dark-haired, cute rather than pretty woman he didn’t recognize jabbed a finger in is direction and yelled, “You have some nerve showing your face here.”
Someone yanked her back inside and a male voice cautioned, “Not in front of the reporters, you little pit bull.”
Often praised for his quick thinking, Shane made use of the unattended doorway to push his way inside.
“Hey!” the unfamiliar woman yelled. “Get the hell out of here.”
Not a chance.
“Do you want him out?” the police officer asked.
Shane countered with, “I’m not going anywhere,” prepared to stand his ground no matter what.
In the silence that followed, everyone turned to look at Brooke, standing in her neat, expensive-looking living room, staring at him. More beautiful than he remembered. And dressed so very classy. Her long, thick, dark brown hair parted on the side, falling below her shoulders in sleek waves he wanted to run his fingers through. Her oval face, full lips—God, he’d spent hours fantasizing about those lips—and skin flawless, her eyebrows sculpted into perfectly formed arches over soft, warm brown eyes. So pretty, like the cheerleaders in high school who used to look down at him and his friends who were too busy working after-school jobs to get involved with football. But from all the deeply honest communications they’d shared, Shane knew for certain Brooke’s wholesome beauty was all she had in common with those girls.
“Brooke?” the cop asked, because she stood there in her prim pink sweater and perfectly ironed tan slacks, rubbing her fingers absently over a strand of pearls at her neck, staring blankly, completely mute.
“Close the door while we work this out,” the police officer instructed.
Shane complied, making sure to engage the deadbolt lock with a satisfying click.
Stage one of his mission complete: Gain access.
As he turned back around, his fight response flared at a sudden burst of movement in his peripheral vision. He went on the alert prepared to defend himself, for all of a second. Because once he recognized it was Brooke coming at him he planted his cane, opened his right arm and braced for impact.
“Thank God you’re okay,” she said, crashing into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight.
He was far from okay. Pain exploded in his left hip then shot down his leg. It took every bit of strength and balance he had to keep them both from falling to the floor. How humiliating was that, a man of his size almost getting knocked over by a 120-pound—at most—woman?
“Two and a half months,” she said, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I haven’t heard from you for two and a half months.” She gave him a big squeeze. “I’ve been so worried.” Her voice cracked as if she were trying to keep from crying.
He held her close, closing his eye, not wanting anything to ruin this moment, to interfere with the sublime feel of holding her, when he didn’t think he ever would again.
“I e-mailed you I’d be out of communication for a while.” He rubbed her back to comfort her. “I told you not to write and not to worry if you didn’t hear from me.” Still, he felt like the biggest ass on the planet for not calling her sooner. But he’d needed time, still needed time, to get stronger, mentally and physically, to get his own place and figure out his future. He didn’t want her to see him as he was now: a weak, useless, damaged shell of the man she’d met up with a few short months ago.
“Apparently I was right to be worried.” She stepped back. Her expression filled with concern as she studied him, starting with the thick, black-rimmed glasses he now wore to see out of his right eye and the black patch over the socket where his left eye used to be.
As bad as it looked, what it covered looked even worse.
She slid her gaze down to the cane in his left hand.
“What happened?”
“Ambush. RPG. Rocket-propelled grenade,” he explained in case she wasn’t familiar with the abbreviation. “I made out better than the guy sitting next to me.” He tried to put a positive spin on it, but failed miserably at the memory of Shep, a married father of two who’d gotten his head blown off. As it always did, Shane’s stomach turned at the memory of the horrific scene. So much blood.
“When?”
He swallowed down his nausea. “About two weeks after I got back from leave.” A fucking suicide mission that’d accomplished nothing. Dozens dead and wounded. For fucking nothing.
He inhaled. Exhaled. Focused on his breathing. Fought to remain calm, to keep his anger contained. He didn’t want Brooke to see—didn’t want to expose her to the man he’d become.
“You look pale. Do you need to sit down?”
Yes. But he told her, “No,” so he wouldn’t come off as weak. He was here for her. Needed to be strong for her.
“How long have you been home?”
“I spent over a month in the hospital then a couple of weeks in physical rehab. I’ve been at my parents’ house about two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Come,” she took him by the arm and led him to her pretty cream-colored couch. “Sit.” While he did she went into the kitchen, took a glass down from the cabinet, and filled it with water from the door of her refrigerator. “Here.” She walked back, holding out the glass. “Drink. Do you need ibuprofen?”
His throbbing leg screamed for something a hell of a lot stronger. “No. Thank you.” He sipped the water then set the glass on the table. “I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m here to take care of you. To do whatever I can to help,” he said. “To explain what happened. To apologize. I am so sorry—”
The pit bull piped up, “If you think a simple, ‘I am so sorry’ is going to get you off the hook—”
The cop wrapped a gentle hand over the woman’s mouth to silence her. “This is Brooke’s call. Not yours.”
She struggled in his hold, but the cop didn’t back down.
“Why didn’t you call me to let me know what happened?” Brooke asked. The emotion in her question and the hurt in her voice squeezed his heart. He hadn’t told her because he’d been a self-centered, inconsiderate bastard more concerned about himself and the changes to his life than how Brooke might be feeling about him ceasing all contact for as long as he had. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough couple of months.” He hoped she would let him leave it at that.
The cop spoke. “What about the picture?”
Thankful for the change in direction, Shane got right to work explaining. “After the attack I got medevaced out. I never returned to base and don’t know who packed up my personal items. When my dad got them I told him to take out my laptop and stick everything else in the basement until I was ready to deal with it.”
Ironically, thinking about her letters and pictures is what’d kept him from going in search of his bags. He didn’t want to depend on Brooke to get him through, like she’d gotten him through so many other difficult times this past year. He’d wanted a clean break, convinced she’d want nothing to do with him now. Prepared and determined to move on to the next phase of his life without her. After all, who’d wa
nt to take on a disabled vet if they didn’t have to? “I had no idea someone had helped himself to my pictures—to your pictures—until I saw the same one you did on Facebook.”
“What about my letters?” she asked rubbing her necklace.
“I have them all.” Thank you, God. After seeing her picture on the Internet, he’d struggled down the stairs to the basement, hopping on his good leg, maintaining a death grip on the railing to keep from killing himself, forgetting every instruction his physical therapist had given him in his haste. Then he’d sat there, on the cold, concrete floor, and counted them. Every. Single. One. He knew for certain because he’d numbered the envelopes when he’d jotted down a few words about the content of each letter so he could easily access the specific one he was in the mood to reread at any given time.
“I’ve sent e-mails to two of my buddies, soldiers still in Afghanistan. I know as soon as either one of them gets it they’ll do what I asked, which is for them to find Chad, take back your pictures, and make him delete the image from Facebook.” He thought it best not to share the beat-him-unconscious part.
The cop yelled, “Ouch,” and shook his hand.
Once again free to speak, the pit bull yelled, “Don’t believe him, Brooke. I bet he’s a liar like his friend Rory.” She glared at him.
Ah. Now it made sense. “You must be Neve.” Brooke’s best friend. “Rory’s pen pal.” Rory McRoy also known as Shane’s good friend Mic.
But something had happened between the two of them a few months back when Mic had come home on leave. He’d returned moody and short-tempered. He’d refused to discuss it, which was totally out of character. Usually getting Mic to shut up was the problem. “You make a great peanut brittle.” Shane shared the consensus of the soldiers Rory deemed worthy to share his precious care packages with, trying to bridge the gap.
Loving You Is Easy Page 5