by Dani Wyatt
I reach around toward my back, my eyes intent and on his—Jeremy’s widen and he swallows. My fingers touch the solid metal stuck in my belt but I don’t pull it out. Sometimes innuendo works better.
“One more thing,” I say, stroking the cold metal. “I have an internal lie detector. Trust me. It works. So if I detect a lie, you get hurt. I can be creative. You’ve already met my fist a couple times. And I have other creative ways of hurting you.” I bring my hand back to rest on my knee as I sit up straight with a bored sigh and an irritated scowl.
“She liked him,” he blurts out as he shakes his head, wiping the smear of blood from his bottom lip. “I don’t know why. She thought he had money, I guess. He wasn’t interested. But she managed to get him to take her to dinner one night. Told him she hadn’t eaten or something. Then she said she needed a ride home because someone was dropping off Promise and she wasn’t going to be there in time.”
No lie. “And.”
“I don’t know it all,” he whines, a drop of blood dribbling down his chin. I watch it trail through the scruff to land on his polyester shirt. “She got him to come inside. One time, she told me he just attacked her out of nowhere. Then another time, she was all proud because she seduced him. She said he wouldn’t do it. He brushed her off. You've met her; you can imagine how pissed she was. So she called him a fag or something.” He sits back farther in his chair, assessing the effect that word has on me. “Those are her words, not mine.”
“It’s not making sense. I do not have time for your shit today.” I have a feeling this little fairy tale involves Jeremy somehow and he’s playing it off like he’s an innocent bystander.
“I wasn’t there. Like I said, I just know what she told me and it was a long time ago. It was like it was some sort of badge of honor that she got him to fuck her. I don’t think she even knew he wasn’t really into women. I sort of knew, but I don't remember it being something we’d talked about. So that night, when he wasn’t interested in her, she just threw the insults out there and I guess something stuck. He sort of exploded after that.”
“Why didn’t she go to the police if he did rape her?”
“She said she was scared.”
Even Jeremy can’t hide the disbelief in his voice.
“Uh huh. We both know Holly Henderson is the first one to play victim if it suits her.” I’m working to put the pieces together in my head, but there is still something missing.
Then it dawns on me. A jolt of electricity shoots from my brain to my gut. “Were you fucking her?”
Jeremy looks at me with a gaping mouth and drops his hand from his swollen bottom lip.
“No.” He sets his jaw.
I shake my head. My hand comes up to clutch his t-shirt. His mouth turns into a startled ‘O’ and his hands start to come up.
Too late. I slam my forehead into his nose, head butting him with a grunt. Sometimes it's the sounds that do the job as much as the physical stuff.
He flops back into the chair. I’m not sure if he’s out cold, or just processing the amount of pain coursing through his nervous system. A trickle of blood makes a small red river out of his left nostril and stops for a moment when it reaches the top of his lip.
“I’ve had about as much of your bullshit as I can take. Don’t. Fucking. Lie. To. Me. We just covered this and you seem to be a slow learner. You have a college degree. These are not difficult questions.”
I smack his cheek until he opens his eyes. They are unfocused but at least he’s back with me.
“You were fucking her.” I nod at him and he eagerly nods back. “Good. Better.” I tousle his hair then crack another playful slap on his cheek.
“So, you were involved with her. And I understand. I’m sure back then she was beautiful. I get the attraction. But, here’s what I don’t get. She manages to get Louis to screw her that night.”
Jeremy interrupts, the pitch of his voice raised a notch. I'm not sure how much more he can take, so I hope he keeps cooperating. “She knew he wasn’t interested in her. I said she didn’t know, but she did. It was sort of a challenge I guess. She always wanted the ones that didn’t want her. It wasn’t money. Louis didn’t have any money then. He was just starting his company and working as a liaison, which doesn’t pay for shit.”
“Still, why did she not tell him she was pregnant?”
“Let’s just say, there were several—multiple—possibilities for whom Jordan’s father could be. Some of them . . . she didn’t even know their names or how to find them even if she wanted to.”
“Not you?” I raise my eyebrows, and for just a second I have a flash of honest, genuine empathy for the guy.
“No, it wasn’t me.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know, okay? I don’t have to tell you why. Besides, Holly was messed up, even back then. I wanted to help them. I did. But she wouldn’t let me. But I couldn’t stand the way she treated Promise. She was so little and she had no one.”
“So you became a little too interested.”
“Not at first.” He says it like a plea. “In the beginning, I thought I was in love with Holly. Then, later, I just wanted Promise to be safe.”
“So you told her to set fucking fires?”
He rolls his eyes and any sympathy I had for him evaporates.
“It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone.” He looks down and I want to rip his face off with my teeth.
Instead I push back, sliding the coffee table with me, and rise to my feet. I need to put some space between us before I fucking kill him. I press my hands to the sides of my head and rub my temples.
The thought that he manipulated a damaged, lonely little girl is pure evil.
“I loved her before you. I waited for her. I tried to help her.”
“And you even offered Holly money if she would give her to you.” I threw the line out and watched to see if he’d take the bait. My odds were fifty-fifty that every word out of Holly’s drugged up mouth was complete and utter bullshit.
Jeremy’s eyes tell me it’s true. Whatever his intentions, no sane person does that.
I need to get out of here. His stink wakes up parts of me that will not simply end with a bloody nose.
I need to speak to Louis’s sister next. Then somehow get to Louis. And nothing’s going to stop me.
“My inclination here is to beat you, and just keep on beating you, until you need to suck your food through a straw for the remainder of your days. But I’ll re-think that if you give me a straight answer to just one more question.”
My gut turns. His next words may very well change everything.
Promise
Maybe it’s his raised eyebrows, or maybe it's the way he makes me laugh even when I want to poke him with something red hot and sharp. But it's certainly infuriating.
I scowl as Bruce fusses with the coffee pot from his place in the kitchen. “You’re like a bald Medusa dragging out people’s secrets with one look,” I blurt out the words as I pull my lips to the side and tug on the hem of my shirt.
“You know, those looks can make limp dicks hard.” He wipes the counter near the coffee pot, which is on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. “Why is it no coffee maker company on the face of the planet can make a coffee pot that doesn’t drip when you pour from it?”
He’s aggravated because of the conversation we’ve just had, and I feel bad about that because I know he cares about me and I just put him in an awkward position. But I also feel irritated that he's annoyed at me, because I didn't even want to tell him.
“Stop being annoyed. You kept asking questions. Yooooouuuuu.” I point and wag my finger at him, a grimace on my face, and I'm shifting in my seat because my skin feels like an army of ants is marching up and down my back.
“Yes. Because contrary to your own opinion, there are people in this world that think you are worth the effort and care about you. Even if you are a huge pain in the ass. Which you are, by the way.” He slams the glass p
ot back into the coffee maker base, spins around and brings the mug to his lips with an impatient slurp. “And,” he jabs a finger in the air toward me, “you do remember I also have a Master’s Degree in Nursing and I know a thing or two about pharmaceuticals. Jesus, half the population of Windfield is on anti-depressants.”
“I’m sorry. Pretend I didn’t tell you.”
He exaggerates a nod and glares at me with mouth agape.
“Let’s stay on planet earth shall we?” he says with a snort. “I could tell something was up just from the look on your face when you walked in the door. I mean, I know you have a lot going on, but you look different. I can see it in your eyes.”
It’s rare that Bruce doesn’t turn everything into a reason to smile, but there’s no hint of a grin on his lips now.
“Fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“Is that what your doctor said?” The sarcastic cut to his voice makes my stomach clench. My anxiety makes it hard to swallow.
I don’t answer, because it’s a rhetorical question and now it's my turn to be annoyed. I’ve managed to keep the pregnancy to myself so far. It’s still strictly between me and Beck.
“Anyway, fine.” He slurps another sip of coffee and steps out of the kitchen toward me. “But I reserve the right to bring this up again. Especially if I see other changes in you.” He stops next to the kitchen table and flutters a hand at me, but he softens his glare and his voice. “You look cute. It’s nice having you back on the sofa in something other than sweatpants looking like you’re channeling Sylvia Plath.”
I realize how much I miss him. Especially, working with him. I may just be a care giver, rather than a nurse or anything important, but I loved being around him and the residents of Windfield. Helping them. Even the hard parts. The duties no one likes to talk about. I mean, they have adult diapers for a reason, and I’ve experienced it all.
“Thanks.” I smooth my hands down my daffodil-yellow skirt. The fabric is sort of a sheer silk and it matches the ribbon I tied around the tail of my braid. I admit I enjoy the skirts now. Beckett hasn’t insisted I wear skirts and dresses all the time, but I do know what he prefers. Easy access. “I just want Jordan back. I’ll be fine as long as we get this craziness figured out.”
I know he’s thinking about the last time I was here on the sofa, curled into a fetal position. Thinking my life was over. Beckett was gone and I was the top suspect in the fire that killed his father. And I had lost my brother for good.
The fire.
I glance at the painting I gave to Bruce that hangs over the opposite wall from the sofa, the one with two faceless people. It’s big. Four feet square with flames filling the background and the two faces floating on top. My palms begin to sweat as I recall that I am not cleared as a suspect. Remembering the unforgivable things I’ve done.
The weight of the burden is no lighter just because I was a child. I've had to deal with what I've done.
An overwhelming sense of dark hopelessness hits me like a cold ocean wave. The feeling is familiar, but I haven’t felt this way for a long, long time. I really thought it had gone. Chased away like a ghost exposed to the light.
My mind spins. Winding down. Down. Like I’m circling a drain, helpless, knowing where I’m heading.
I’ve done things that killed people.
Me. I’m a killer. Who could live with that?
Jeremy may have shown me how to start the fires. But it was I who lit them.
No one was supposed to get hurt. That was always the plan. No one gets hurt. The first one, when I was four, the one in that apartment below where Beckett and his family lived . . . that was just supposed to be a few little sticks in a coffee can. But I was a little kid. I didn’t know the dry leaves I added would burst into flames.
I also didn’t consider the curtains would blow in the breeze when I opened the window to let the smoke out. The flames catching the fabric on fire so fast I had no idea what to do. A kid that age doesn’t think stuff through. But still, right now, I feel the weight of my actions. Of what I did. The lives it took and how it hurt Beckett. God knows who else.
“Hey, stop. I’m sorry.” Bruce’s voice startles me. Jolts me back to the present. He steps from his place by the table toward me. His face lacks its usual zest and I realize I’m crying.
Not the silent kind of crying, the kind you see in the movies where a single tear just rolls down a cheek. This is a full-on, unsteady, gasping, nose-running type of crying.
“Promise.” His tender voice floats over me. Soothing me. “You need to rethink your decision and talk to Dr. Michaels. Or just tell Beckett. He loves you; like crazy kind of love. Secrets are never the way to go.”
“No!” The thought of telling him makes my breath hitch in my throat. I can’t inhale. Can’t get enough oxygen. The fear snakes its way around my heart. Squeezing.
“I.”
Take a breath.
“Can’t.”
Take a breath.
“Tell.”
Breath. Breath. Breath. I can’t take a breath.
“Him.”
Bruce shakes his head.
It must be hormones. I haven’t felt this kind of darkness in years. I'm sure it's just hormones, just the baby sending them haywire. I convince myself it’s that. Not the other thing. The thing I’m sure it’s not. But the more I think about it, the less sure I become until I don't know any more, and then I just hope it's not the other thing.
The thing that no one in my life knew before today. And even now, Bruce doesn’t know it all. Doesn't know the whole truth.
Damn Bruce and his superpower. It’s staring you down with those head nurse eyes until you crack and tell him you’ve stopped taking your medication. Stopped cold without talking to your psychiatrist. Thinking you don’t need it, or him, anymore. Or you tell him that you twice tried to kill yourself when you were a teenager.
Dead.
“It will be fine,” I assure him, even as the words stick behind the lump in my throat. Bruce loves me and I hate the look in his eyes because I know he wouldn’t be so concerned if there wasn’t a good reason.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but the bang on the apartment door stops him.
Promise
We're heading up the steps to the loft and Beckett's right in front of me. But I can't seem to keep my hands to myself. I've just eaten, but now I'm hungry for something else.
He swooped me up from Bruce’s and took me to lunch at Bello’s. I was ravenous. I ate a plate of Pasta Primavera, four pieces of bread and a Napoleon the size of my face.
“It’s hormones.” The heaviness that enveloped me at Bruce’s has evaporated.
“Well, whatever it is, I’m more than happy to serve.”
I still hear the relief in his voice. Apparently, he made sure to clear the air with Jeremy regarding anything that may have happened between us when I was little. I guess he asked him one very clear and final question before he left him sitting alone in his own misery and Jeremy’s answer gave Beckett some peace.
He asked Jeremy if he, or anyone in my mom’s life, had every touched me. Touched me in a way that a little girl should ever be touched. Maybe he thought I might not remember, or want to tell him. I expect Beckett had his way of assuring that Jeremy’s answer was truthful. When he told me about it at dinner, I could feel the relief come off of him and it made me both happy and sad. Sad that he takes the burden of everything in my life as his own, and happy because I know that if Jeremy’s answer had been different, Beckett would be shattered.
Beckett smiled and watched me in wonder the whole time while I ate. There are too many things to list about why I love him. But numero uno is that he loves me just the way I am. He once said everything that nourishes me, nourishes him. I’ve gotten used to being me. The way his fingertips dig into my breasts or my abundant ass feels sexy now, where in the past, I would have felt embarrassed.
In so many ways he still makes me feel small. I like it. More than j
ust like it, I love it. There is nothing better than when he takes me against him, or under him, or lifts me up to wrap my legs around his waist and I feel tiny. I’m wrapped in a warm glow thinking about it because it’s all-encompassing.
The heat rises in my cheeks. I even like the scrape of his black boots on the cement steps as we head back up to the loft. The cadence of his uneven walk makes me horny.
He's wearing that perfect pair of worn Levi’s. The exact balance of loose and tight, coupled with his worn, brown leather belt. I remember the sting as it smacked my ass. That belt has served its duty as more than simply an excellent way to keep his pants from falling down.
A low hum tingles between my legs as I stare at the belt. My hands feel the hard muscles of his ass under the back pockets of his jeans and my panties are officially done. Inside my head, that little voice whispers, ‘Daddy, I need you.'
He reads my mind.
“Babe, you are needy. Just the way I like you. I hope you noticed I didn’t have dessert.” He turns to look over his shoulder and down at me with those Monet eyes. The ones that light up my soul. His lips turn up in a grin. “That’s because my mouth is going to eat your pussy like it’s a piece of warm apple pie.”
I feel the rush of heat pool between my legs as his voice thickens.
He unlocks the loft door, swings it open. As it crashes loudly against the wall, he reaches back to grab my hand, leaving the other one to grope the back pockets of his Levi’s.
I'm up the final step and into his chest, and he's laying a kiss on my lips. Without a word he tells me he is as ready as I am to begin tonight’s show. I still can’t believe how far out of my shell I am with him.
I never would have believed I would want him so much. Want it. Not just sex, but it.
His cock.
I honestly think about it, a lot. Right now I want my mouth on it, but I get the feeling he’s got other plans.
His lips seek mine. They're soft but the kiss is hard. Almost desperate. His tongue loops into my mouth. I still taste a hint of bitter coffee on his lips, the only thing he had while he watched me devour my Napoleon.