Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

  I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “It’s actually quite self-absorbed at the root of it. I want to die making a difference. A big difference, actually. I want to change something. Be someone worth remembering.”

  “I like that,” Carina says. “That’s a fantastic tag line. I think you label it as self-absorption, but it’s not. Not really. You aren’t what I was expecting. Especially for a Navy SEAL.” She takes another sip of her water.

  “I can’t help the stereotypes they place on us, and yes, I may subscribe to a few.”

  She smiles widely. “You have the frog tattoo?” she asks, her voice more brazen.

  I nod, eyes closed. “I do. You did your research?”

  Carina laughs. “But you’re obviously not a womanizer,” she says.

  I smirk. “Are you asking? Or is that an invitation?”

  Carina’s mouth pops open. “No, of course not.”

  I hold up a hand. “I was joking. Using some of that inappropriate humor we’re stereotyped for, you know?” I laugh. “I’m not a womanizer. I’ve only been with Megan. Or so I’ve been told.” I flash her a megawatt smile.

  She shrinks back into herself a little more. “Noted.” My sexual non-promiscuity is a little embarrassing, but at least it’s an honest answer. Even now, with Megan, our sexual encounters are scripted and dull. I haven’t steeled enough nerve to ask if our sex life has always been this leaden, or if it’s because she’s afraid to break me more.

  “I was just lightening the mood a little. This is going to get heavy otherwise. Can I ask you something personal?” I want to start our one-for-one game again.

  She hits the pause button on her recorder. “I can take a joke. I’m not used to your humor. That’s all. It depends on what that personal question is.” She runs a hand through her ponytail, and I watch as another photo album catches her eye. Standing from my chair, I pick up the offender in question and open the album on the table in front of her. It’s a recent one from before I deployed and got blasted into smithereens.

  “I’m giving you all of me here. I want to get to know you—the person who sells tall tales for a living, the person who hides behind a false name and big sunglasses. You have to know how intriguing you are to others.” I sit on the coffee table next to the album. I’m close enough to touch her, but I won’t. I’m thinking about sex with Megan and how lucky I am to have her.

  She shifts again, and her skirt rides up a hint. I don’t look. I’m merely made aware in my peripheral vision. “There’s not much to know about me. I was born and raised in a small town north of here. My mom is dead. My biological father whom I’ve never met lives somewhere in this city, and my stepfather, who was a monster, is also dead. I don’t have any siblings. I’ve always used my writing as an escape from reality, although I mostly write sad stories, which doesn’t make much sense.”

  I pick up on it right away. “Why doesn’t it make much sense?”

  “I write to escape sadness, but it trickles into my writing anyways.”

  “Why are you still with Roarke?” I remember his name from her cell phone. It’s an awful sounding name. It makes a guttural noise in my throat. I searched his name and found a company photo of him. All white, fake veneers and bad hair transplants. The portrait of a wife beater. My skin prickles at the memory. I almost broke my iPad while I read his biography. From a well-to-do family, with a penchant for sailing and bourbon tasting. I wonder how much bourbon he had in him when he gave her the black eye.

  She sighs. “That’s the one place I won’t go. Please. Don’t ask. He’s a good man. He really is. I have a lovely home and a nice life because of him. It’s not fair to talk about him when he’s not here to defend himself.”

  There would be no defending. I’d kill him outright.

  “You couldn’t have those things without him? I think you could. A good man would never hit a woman. You don’t have to be afraid of him, you know? You could leave and never look back.”

  This is what I’ve learned about domestic violence. Women tend to blanket themselves with fear and never come up for air. It’s a crippling, mind-numbing, reality-altering terror.

  She smiles sweetly. “That’s very kind of you to say. I better be going now, Smith. Thank you ever so much for today. Shall we meet again soon?” Carina isn’t ready to come up for air. She’s not denying the abuse either. That, perhaps, is the best thing of all.

  She stands. I stand. The black and white photo peeking up at me is Megan kissing my neck. My eyes are closed with a blissful smile arching my face. It makes my stomach hurt. I’ll never feel that again. Not with Megan. And I’ll have to pretend. Carina catches me staring. “You’re very lucky, Smith. Very lucky indeed,” she whispers.

  I shake my head. “Luck never has anything to do with it. Be well. And, Carina? I want you to know something.”

  Gathering her things, she heads for the door. I open it wide. Mrs. Waters is gone. “What’s that? I could guess, but you’re surprising in that way. I can’t predict what you might say next. With regards to me, it’s very much so a mystery. Tell me. What do you want me to know?” Carina’s voice seems emboldened.

  “That I’m not hiding from you, so you shouldn’t hide from me either. I’m here for you. In whatever capacity makes you most comfortable. If we’re going to continue this, which I hope we will because it seems therapeutic for me, then we should be friends. Give and take. Okay? Let me be there for you.”

  Her big eyes turn down in the corners. “Oh, Smith. You can’t save everyone.” She lays her smooth palm on the side of my face. The bad side of my face, the one that is hard to look at. Carina sees well past the surface into the uncomfortable, ignored zone of my psyche. And with such ease. Bringing my hand up, I grasp her wrist. She leaves her hand on my scars.

  “I can try,” I say, smiling.

  “You can,” she returns.

  And so I will.

  Chapter Seven

  Carina

  SOMETIMES STRENGTH IS DISPLAYED in unfamiliar ways. It doesn’t look like the ass kicking heroine in the latest blockbuster. She doesn’t use a gun or have a sharp tongue. Sometimes a woman’s strength comes from enduring. Going on—waking up and doing the same thing over and over again. Since I began meeting with Smith, thoughts of leaving Roarke creep in more and more. Instead of enduring, I’m envisioning a life without him and his controlling dictatorship. These thoughts always end with me shaking with terror. I made a plan to leave him after he manhandled me last night. Luckily, this time, it wasn’t my face.

  I didn’t sleep all night. I lay awake with fear picking my plan apart piece by piece. When it was time to wake up, I knew I needed my friend to take my mind off everything.

  Jasmine sips her tea. “How many meetings have you had with Deep-Smith-hot-body?” She giggles. I love the sound.

  We walk together through the farmers’ market, shoulders touching. I turn my face up so warm sunshine kisses my face. “Four. Four amazing interviews where I question things about myself because of the stories he tells.” I sigh and glance at her. “If I’m not with him listening to his stories, I’m thinking of them. This project is eating me alive.”

  She grimaces and shakes her head. Her black hair cut into a sleek bob bounces back and forth. “That doesn’t sound good. So dramatic,” Jasmine jokes. “Why are authors so dramatic?”

  I smile. “Feast or famine. You know that better than anyone. This is feast. I’m feasting, Jasmine. Be happy for me.” I wish I could take off my cardigan and tie it around my waist. It’s a beautiful San Diego day. Roarke made sure that wouldn’t happen.

  She loops her arm through mine, causing me to wince. “I’m so happy for you. For us. Let’s get crepes,” she exclaims, leading me to our favorite food vendor cart. The sweet scents of sugar and butter seep into my awareness and lighten my mood even further. “I’m glad you called me this morning. I was slugging through my inbox on a Sunday morning. How depressing is that? Work on a Sunday.”

  She
orders for both of us, and we take our paper wrapped crepes and sit on the curb to devour the confections. In between bites I say, “I’m going to leave him, Jaz. I’m going to leave him and I might need your help. In fact, I know I will.”

  She chokes on a bite and bangs on her chest in an exaggerated gesture. “Jesus, Carina. A little warning would be nice. Of course, though. Of course. What happened?”

  Using my very best what-do-you-think-happened face, I raise both brows. She cocks her head to the side in confusion. I slip my sweater down my shoulder until the huge purple bruise on my bicep is exposed. “I can’t take it anymore. He’s getting worse. There’s no talking to him in a rational manner. I’m afraid what will happen if I stay, but I’m even more terrified of what he will do if I leave,” I say, readjusting my cardigan back on my shoulder. “I’ll need access to my account. I’m going to start depositing all of my money from our joint account into that one a little at a time so he won’t notice. We’ve kept half of all of my advance money in that account, right?” Deep down I knew it would come to this. I didn’t think I’d ever be brave enough to follow through.

  Using one arm, she pulls me against her side and tilts her head on top of mine. I collapse into her gentle hug. “Oh, honey. I’m so happy you’re doing this. We can do this. My brother will help out. Don’t worry about anything. You can stay with me. Yes. The money is in there and your account is safe.” She exhales a huge pent-up breath. I imagine it’s from years of watching her best friend go through torment and not being able to do anything about it. Her brother, Sean, is a police officer. He’s always been kind to me.

  “I’m so relieved,” I admit. I take a cleansing breath. I’m okay right now.

  She sighs and pulls away to face me. “You’re doing the right thing. The best thing. Say the word. Whatever you need from me, you have it. You could have counted on me in the past—left him sooner. You know that, right?

  I absorb her words. “I wasn’t ready in the past. Not like I am now.”

  My sunshine vanishes into shadow. “Greenleigh Ivers, may I have your autograph?” he says, his voice a perfected, low timbre.

  Smith stands tall in front of me, a beautiful woman, Megan, by his side. “Why, hello. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I reply.

  Jasmine laughs, and we both stand.

  Megan smiles. “Smith has told me so much about you. I’m a little starstruck right now, to be honest. I loved, and I mean absolutely loved, your first novel, Pinion Lane. I cried for days,” she says, eyes wide.

  Turning my face down, I shake my head. “I’m so bad with this.” I meet her eyes. “I’m glad you loved it. You have made my month. Public relations aren’t my strong suit.” I laugh. She still looks a little stymied. As am I. Smith told her about our meetings and he didn’t tell me. I let my gaze flit to Smith. He’s grinning.

  Jasmine breaks the awkward silence I so eloquently created. “That book was my demise. I knew I needed it for my own as soon as I read chapter one,” she gushes and extends her hand. “I’m Jasmine Chen. The business behind her creative.” Jasmine bows like a lady in waiting. “I got lucky we live in the same city because she’s also my best friend.”

  “Today she isn’t my agent,” I say. “Today we eat crepes without tallying caloric intake.”

  Megan giggles. “Look, Smith, she chose your favorite flavor.” She motions to my hand. It’s a simple cinnamon sugar crepe. I like it because I can taste the actual dough.

  Smith quirks a brow. “Really? My favorite? Guess that one slipped the goalie, too.”

  Megan’s smile fades. “Oh,” she whispers. Her pain seeps into the air surrounding us.

  He wraps an arm around her waist.

  I look over Megan’s shoulder at the stall of fruit behind them. “You guys enjoy your day. Let’s go grab our fruit, Jaz,” I prompt. “We were going to make that pie. I bet they have some great berries.”

  Jasmine pops the last bite of crepe in her mouth and dusts the powdered sugar off on her khaki shorts. “You’re so right. It was wonderful meeting you both. Stay tuned for Carina’s next masterpiece.”

  I elbow my friend. “It was great meeting you, Megan. Smith has told me so much about you. You’re just as lovely as he described,” I say, shaking her hand.

  Megan gushes about my novel one more time, and we exchange brisk pleasantries.

  Taking a small, strengthening breath, I let my gaze slide to Smith. “It was great running into you. Take care, okay?”

  Smith bites his lower lip and raises his brows. The one on the left side of his face doesn’t rise as high as the right brow. He smiles. It’s the beautiful smile—the one that melts away anything negative. I’m too cynical to say that a smile fixes anything, but his might. “You take care, Carina. I’ll see you soon?” Smith says, his eyes pushing for a firm date. The intensity in them forces me to turn my head down.

  I nod. Once again, Jasmine links her arm in mine and steers me into a crowded group of flamboyant men talking about wine. “What was that?” she asks. “Oh my God, Carina. That man. That man.”

  I furrow my brow. “That man what? What was what?”

  Jasmine is known for turning a molehill into a mountain.

  When we’ve separated ourselves from Smith and Megan she spins on me. “You were all nervous in that I-think-you’re-hot-I-love-you way. Don’t say I’m over exaggerating. I saw it all. Including Megan’s face.” Jasmine shakes her head, eyes wide. “He was looking at you the same way. I wouldn’t think it was possible to gauge a look so thoroughly, but it just happened. Gaze sex. Put that in your next book. You were just gaze fucking.”

  I clear my throat as my heart starts hammering. What did Megan’s face look like? Oh, God. My stomach sinks. “He was a perfect gentleman, Jaz. You’re imagining things. He loves her more than…anything else. Trust me. I’m not certain about a lot of things, but this is one thing I know is a fact. Smith loves Megan.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “You saw two friends exchanging a harmless glance.” I felt more than that. How could I not? Even with Megan by his side, every nerve ending in my body was aware of his proximity and how elated it made me feel. I glance in the direction we left. Smith and Megan are waiting in the line to get crepes. His back is wide and his biceps look strong as they pull Megan’s tiny body against his side.

  Jasmine runs her hands down her sides. “Fine. You win.” She holds her hands up in front of her in defeat. That says something because she never gives in. Not in any aspect of her life. I remember sweating bullets when we sold Pinion Lane. She was holding out for a larger advance, and I was scared the publisher was going to tell her to stuff it and take the book elsewhere. She got what she wanted, and now I don’t question any of her business decisions. Her defeat in this moment says more than words can. She’s right and she’s not going to argue anymore. I should be offended, but I’m scared of what that means.

  We talk about nothing except fruit and pies all the way back to the car after we collect our supplies. Once we’re safely tucked in the cab of my SUV I know no subject is off-limits. Jasmine clears her throat. “Please tell me that man isn’t why you’re leaving Roarke. I mean, in one sense I’m happy because it gets you away from him, but on the other hand, he’s a taken man. A very, very taken man.”

  “You know very is a meaningless filler word. Don’t use it twice, Jaz,” I say, avoiding her realization. There it is. Jasmine’s accusing look I was waiting for. “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “I think partly. Not because I think I can have him, but maybe it’s possible to have a good man like him.” Saying it out loud forces reality to creep back in. Roarke. He’ll never let me go without a fight. “And I need to leave him before it happens again. Regardless of the reason.” I rub the side of my face. The place that still aches even though the visible wounds have long since healed.

  I zone out as I drive, imagining different scenarios. All of how leaving Roarke is a bad, most definitely horrible, idea. Jasmi
ne makes a phone call, and I’m vaguely aware that it’s her brother because she says his name every so often. My name comes up a lot, but I’ve switched on autopilot. My stepfather’s face looming over me flashes in my mind. His front teeth overlap. The right over the left. You don’t notice it when he smiles. Only when he’s sneering. His face morphs into Roarke’s. Then the insults ricochet. I’ll never be good enough. I’m lucky to have Roarke. Why would I leave him? This is what I deserve. I pull into my driveway and put the SUV in park. My fiancé’s European sports car is in the drive. He’ll be watching the game, probably half-drunk already.

  Jasmine grabs my hand. “We’re going to get your stuff right now, Carina. Sean is on his way here with reinforcements. You will stay with me until we find you a place of your own. You have plenty of money. Plenty. Don’t worry about that, okay?”

  My skin crawls. I put my face in my hands. “No. I’m not ready yet. He’s home. We can do it another time when he’s away at work. He can’t be home.” I feel cold and hot at the same time. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my fingertips are ice cold. “I need to do this the right way. This isn’t it. I told you out of confidence, Jaz. You can’t do this to me.” I’m panicking at the thought. My breaths turn shallow and erratic. I feel her hands on my back, rubbing.

  “You don’t have to go in. I’ll get everything. He needs to see the show of force to know you’re serious. Sean says sneaking away will only anger him further. This is closure, Carina. This is you standing up for yourself, telling him you want out. This is happening right now because I can’t lie awake and wonder about your well-being another night. More so because you deserve to get out of this now. It’s your life on the line. Your life.”

  I nod. She’s right, but I’m so scared.

  She asks if the SUV is in my name, and I nod again. Several other pertinent questions are raised in my direction that I answer with shakes and nods while we wait for the police. I give her details—gory facts of my life that I hide from everyone. Jasmine winces, but nods firmly, her matter-of-fact business persona arriving to conquer. I show her the photos I took of the last time he mutilated my face. Photos I’m so disconnected from that it looks like another woman. Because, surely a strong woman such as myself wouldn’t allow a man to do this to her. Self-perspective is skewed when you’re living a horror.