Nobody's Hero

by Kallypso Masters

  “Damián, we need to deal with today and the future. I’ve talked to my dad and he’s gotten us both tickets to San Diego tonight.”

  “You can’t leave the club.”

  “Everything’s settled. I’ve spoken with Adam. He’s going to…get your motorcycle out to you, but you need to be with Teresa and your sister as soon as possible. If we make the flight tonight, we’ll be there early in the morning. You need to go pack now. The car’s in the alley. Why don’t you close up the shop now?”

  Damián looked around. His head pounded the rhythm of the slapper he’d just been using. He couldn’t think. There was something he was supposed to be finishing up here tonight. He couldn’t just leave the shop.

  “Look at me, Damián.”

  He tried to slow down his breathing, then turned his gaze toward Karla, who now stood a few feet away—just out of arm’s reach. Waiting. Watching. What did she think he was going to do?

  He could control the beast inside. Couldn’t he?

  He stood taller. “You don’t need to come with me.” She took another step closer.

  Waiting. Watching.

  “I’m going with you. I had a friend who was…who went through this once. I think I can be of help if I’m there.”

  Damián felt his chest tighten. How was he going to make this better for Teresa? What could he say or do to undo the damage?

  “Take slow, deep breaths, Damián. Now.”

  He followed the familiar command Adam had used on him years ago, and felt a bit of the tension ease. He closed his eyes.

  Karla’s hand rubbed his arm in long, sweeping strokes. “Young people are more resilient than we think. If she’s surrounded by those who love her, she’ll get through this, Damián. We’re going to help her get through this. Now, let’s get going. They need us.”

  Karla took his hand and he grabbed her arm as if she were a lifeline. Oh, God, Karla. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life. Even losing his foot in Iraq hadn’t left him feeling this helpless and scared, and that time in his life had been pretty fucking intense. Why couldn’t someone have hurt Damián, rather than Teresa? She was an innocent. Just a kid.

  He couldn’t have loved her more if she were his own daughter. He’d tried to be there for her after Rosa divorced Julio, but with Damián in juvie, then the Marines, and later living half a country away, they’d mostly just talked on the phone, except for Damián’s visits several times a year. Madre de Dios, how could he face her? Would she want to have anything to do with a man right now? Maybe she did need Karla there.

  Karla’s arms squeezing him tight drew him back to the present. “I know you’re scared, but you’re not alone in this. You have me right now, and Adam will get out there as soon as he can. We’ll be there for you, Damián. And for Teresa and your whole family. Just stay focused. She’ll survive this, but she’ll need you to be strong for her.”

  Damián drew a lungful of air and forced himself to smile at Karla. He’d gotten close to her in the months since she’d shown up to audition at the club. She’d become like another sister to him, once he’d seen there was something going on between her and Adam and backed off. Not that his surrogate dad was moving very fast with her, well, until lately. She wasn’t really Damián’s type anyway. He preferred petite blondes. But he knew he didn’t want anyone else standing by his side in the days to come. Karla had an inner strength that he’d need to help pull him through—to help him stay strong for Teresa.

  He gazed into her blue eyes, filled with trust and concern. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I can pack my seabag in about twenty minutes.”

  The next afternoon, he and Karla sat in the mental health clinic’s waiting room, with Teresa between them. As the minutes stretched out, Teresa reached for Karla’s hand. The two had hit it off. Teresa loved Goth music and black clothing, too. After about twenty minutes, his niece laid her head against Damián’s shoulder and he put his arm around her and pulled her closer. She’d been clinging to him, too, ever since he’d arrived in Eden Gardens, the Hispanic community in Solana Beach where he’d lived until he’d gone into the Marines.

  Damián was so glad she hadn’t shut him out. She looked so fragile. Nothing like the exuberant teenager he’d seen less than a month ago at her sixteenth birthday party. Now Teresa waited for the appointment with a social worker to discuss a horrific attack on her person. His sister, Rosa, was a basket case and had asked Damián and Karla to bring her to the neighborhood clinic. Damián hoped to talk with the counselor about what he and his family could do to help Teresa cope and move on. He needed to get Rosa in here, too, apparently, and made a mental note to ask the counselor about her seeing someone, too. But right now, Teresa had a death grip on Karla’s hand and was looking lost and vulnerable. She hadn’t cried in front of him, but just stared ahead as if shell shocked. God, did he ever know that feeling.

  “You okay, querida?” She looked up at him and blinked, but he didn’t think she really saw him. “You’re going to get through this, baby girl. You’re stronger than you know. Just talk to the counselors and let them help you find ways to cope.”

  “I don’t want to go in there alone. Will you go with me, Uncle Damo?”

  “Sure, but if you need to talk about anything you don’t want me to hear, just boot my butt out of the room. Okay?”

  No smile. No light in her eye. No fire.

  Just a meek nod. That god-damned motherfucker was going to suffer for what he’d done to Teresa. Damián would make sure of it, because he planned to be judge, jury, and executioner.

  The door to the inner offices opened and Damián turned to watch a brunette with shoulder-length hair step through the doorway, glance down at the manila folder in her hand, and call Teresa’s name. Her gaze flitted over him, then Teresa, but came back to him again immediately. He felt as if he’d taken a kick to the solar plexus, unable to breathe for a moment. Her hair color had changed, but he’d recognize those big blue eyes anywhere, even though they seemed happier now than they’d been all those years ago. Her unpainted lips were a dusky pink and his balls tightened at the thought of kissing her. Again.

  Savannah.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As recognition dawned, Savannah’s eyes opened wider and she clutched the folder to her chest. So, she remembered him. He wasn’t sure she would at first. They’d only spent about twenty-four hours together, what, eight years ago? But she’d been in his thoughts or dreams every day for many years beyond that, and still invaded his dreams from time to time.

  “Uncle Damo? Are you coming in with me?”

  He looked up to find Teresa standing beside his chair, waiting for a response. Madre de Dios, he couldn’t go back there and face Savannah again. He’d finally put her memory behind him and moved on. Well, for the most part. How would he be able to sit in the same room with her and not want to touch her?

  “Teresa? This way, please.” Savannah’s voice was as sweet as he remembered.

  “Are you okay, Damián?” Karla reached out to squeeze his hand and he watched Savannah zero in on Karla and wince before she masked her expression.

  “Yeah.” Damián stood and took Teresa’s hand.

  He turned toward Savannah again. He didn’t like to remember the day he found her, tortured and broken spirit at the hands of two Japanese sadists at the hotel where he worked. His gaze roamed her body from head to toe. Her legs were encased in tight-fitting jeans and she wore a long-sleeved purple blouse. The folder and her arms hid her breasts from view.

  Good thing.

  His body reacted to her in a way that was totally inappropriate for the woman who would be Teresa’s counselor. Then he remembered how much Savannah had wanted to become a social worker. To help kids. He smiled. She’d made it.

  Without him.

  He needed her to focus on helping Teresa deal with her trauma more than anything in the world. Putting his own feelings aside, he walked with Teresa toward Savannah. For the first time since yesterday, he began
to feel things were going to be okay. Savannah would make it better. She was a kind and gentle soul. The perfect person.

  For Teresa, at least.

  Savannah led them down the long hallway. Noise machines whirred beside each door so passersby wouldn’t hear private conversations taking place inside the rooms. At the end of the hallway, she opened a door and motioned them inside. Passing by her, he caught a whiff of a flowery scent, but it was different from the flowery scent he remembered. Inside the office, he saw a desk with two wooden chairs in front of it, then a rocking chair and a loveseat in a corner of the room with dim lighting.

  “Please sit wherever you’re most comfortable.”

  Teresa made a beeline to the rocking chair and began rocking, hugging herself to provide self-comfort. Damián looked around and saw that the only other place to sit was the loveseat and sat at one end. Savannah hesitated a moment, then sat at the opposite end, as far away from him as she could get.

  “I’m Savi Baker, a counselor here.”

  Baker. So, she’d married. He looked down at her left hand and saw the wedding band on her hand. No engagement ring. Just a simple band. Damián didn’t want to think about why her being married caused an ache to form in his chest.

  “Please call me Savi. Teresa, who do you have here with you today?”

  “My Uncle Damo,” she whispered.

  Damián reached out his hand to Savi, as she called herself now. It would take him awhile to get used to calling her anything but Savannah, after all these years. “Damián Orlando.” She hesitated, looking at his hand as if it were an attacking snake, before taking it in hers. He detected a trembling that told him she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she pretended to be. After a perfunctory handshake, she pulled her hand back.

  Damián tried to focus on the conversation unfolding, but his mind kept wanting to compare the old Savannah to the new Savi. Not only had she changed in physical appearance, but she seemed much more in control now. Her face had stronger lines. Now she exuded confidence. Back then, she’d been afraid of her own shadow. Yeah, she’d done well for herself, which made him happy, even though he wished he’d been able to be a part of the journey with her.

  She definitely had a knack for putting her clients at ease, but also for drawing out the ugly details of what had brought them here in the first place.

  Savi had Teresa smiling at one point, talking about Father Martine. How did a woman from Rancho know about the Hispanic community’s local parish priest? Surely she didn’t attend San Miguel’s, his home church, although it certainly wasn’t strictly a Latino congregation. But she talked about goings on there as if she was familiar with the church and its members. Maybe she just went there occasionally to keep up with the people served by the clinic where she worked.

  As Savi focused on engaging Teresa in conversation, he watched her slowly coax his niece into sharing the first details he’d heard about the rape. His admiration for Savi’s skill soon turned to a rage Damián had never known as he listened. He fought hard to mask his emotions so as not to halt the words Teresa probably needed to get out. The need to crush Julio’s head between his hands was so strong he could barely contain the beast that fought to escape its fragile cage.

  Control. He needed to maintain control.

  Distance. He glanced over at Savi’s wedding band again. Had she married her sugar daddy, or someone else? She’d cut her hair, dyed it. He didn’t know her maiden name. She was a Baker now. Judging by the gallery of photos behind her desk across the room, she probably had a child. A Hispanic-looking girl looked out at him with soulful brown eyes that reminded him of Teresa’s. The photo in which she looked the oldest was her First Communion, so she’d be at least seven years old.

  While the photos appeared to be of one little girl at various ages, Savi might have more than one child. Or the photos could be of one or more nieces or other relatives, he supposed.

  Damián was happy for her that life had turned out just the way she’d wanted, from what he could tell. Thank God he hadn’t found her before shipping out to Fallujah. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be saddled with a cripple like him. She deserved a whole man.

  Apparently she’d found that with her husband. But her sugar daddy hadn’t been Hispanic, so she must have found a new man soon after their day at the beach. Damián didn’t understand why that bothered him so much.

  Thirty-five minutes later, after hearing Teresa tell more about what her father had done to her, rocking faster as her turmoil built, thoughts about Savannah had been replaced by anger and torment. When Teresa began crying, he couldn’t stand it any longer and got up and went over to her.

  “Mr. Orlando, you might want to give her some space...”

  Teresa got up from the rocker and came into Damián’s arms. “Uncle Damo, he hurt me so bad.”

  “Shhh, bebé, it’s over now. He’s never going to hurt you again.” Damián held her as she gave into the torrent of tears that probably had been stored up for days. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

  After a few minutes, the sobs became more intermittent and Damián pulled away. “Let’s sit down so Mrs. Baker can finish, baby girl.”

  “I’m not a baby anymore, Uncle Damo.”

  “No, you’re a kick-ass warrior woman and no one’s gonna mess with you ever again.”

  She smiled up at him and Damián sat back down on the loveseat. Teresa surprised him by curling up in his lap. He felt Savi grow tense beside him and looked to find her casting a disapproving glance his way. Jesús, did she think he’d do something inappropriate with his niece? What kind of sicko did she think he was?

  Savi turned her focus to Teresa and began telling her what she should do for homework, as she called it. He needed to listen up, because Teresa probably wasn’t hearing anything at the moment.

  “And I’d like you to start keeping a journal. Write about what you’re feeling at least once a day. If you feel numb, write about how that feels. If you’re angry, sad, content—whatever you feel—just describe it in your journal. If something triggers those feelings, write what those triggers were. Try to fill at least a page every day at first, if writing comes hard, but don’t stress out over quantity. I just want you to spend some time expressing yourself in your journal every day, Teresa. You won’t have to share anything in there with anyone else. But always bring it with you, because it might help you remember incidents or feelings since the last time we were together. You can refer back to it to see how you were feeling at a specific time or a particular event.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Savi.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today, Teresa?”

  His niece shook her head.

  Savi got up from the loveseat and went to her desk. “I want you to make another appointment for two days from now, but I’m going to give you my card. If you feel things getting to be too much, just call the number. If it’s after hours, the service will get in touch with me.” She paused a moment, then turned her card over, laid it on the desktop, and picked up her pen. “Actually, I’m going to write my cell number on the back,” she said, stopping to scribble on the card. She glanced over at Damián and he saw what looked like worry in her eyes.

  Shit. She acted like he was going to call and harass her or something. This woman had serious trust issues. Well, she’d made it abundantly clear years ago she wanted nothing more to do with him. He’d have no trouble respecting her wishes and steering clear of her and her perfect family.

  * * *

  Karla worried about Damián. He’d been very quiet since coming out of the counselor’s office yesterday. What had Teresa revealed? And what was Damián going to do with that information? When she was around him, she felt his rage barely simmering at a slow burn. Maybe she should get him out of the house for awhile.

  He put a pan of enchiladas into the oven. She wished she could cook well enough to help out. She’d see if anyone liked tuna-noodle casserole.

  She knew there would be time
before dinner was ready. “Damián, I’d like to see your neighborhood. Let’s take a walk.” He looked at her with an are-you-kidding-me? expression that brought a grin to her face.

  Teresa poured the rice into a pot and opened a can of diced tomatoes with chiles. “I’ll work on the rice. Go for a walk. I’m fine.” Teresa seemed to like to cook and had helped him stuff and roll the enchiladas, too. It probably was good for her to keep busy.

  For the first time in days, Damián grinned and a weight lifted off Karla’s chest. “I’ll be ready in a few.” He went down the hall to his bedroom and she went to the room where she’d been sleeping and retrieved her walking shoes. When she returned to the kitchen, he was standing at the back door waiting for her.

  “So, what do you want to see?”

  “Your school.”

  They walked out of the house and down the steps, then around to the street. “Well, then, you get a two-fer, because my school and my church are right beside each other. I went to San Miguel’s until…sophomore year of high school.”

  “Why didn’t you finish?”

  “My fist had a run-in with Julio’s teeth after he beat up my sister. It wasn’t the first time he’d beaten her—but I’d hoped it would be the last. Unfortunately, he didn’t get many more years in prison than the two I got in juvie.”

  Karla reached out to put her arm around him in support and felt something hard in the small of his back. “You’re carrying a gun?”