by Sharon Sala
Brett nodded. “Just happy to be here.”
“No more than we are to have you, brother.”
Brett looked away. He heard the emotion in his brother’s voice. It would have been too easy to let his own emotions run away with him. But not today. Today was a day for celebration. Today he was alive and going home to Tory. The thought of her made him weak inside.
“Hey, Ryan.”
“What?”
“How’s Tory taking all this?”
Ryan frowned. “You mean, you getting shot?”
“No, I mean all the uproar at home.”
Ryan looked nervous. The coming-home party was supposed to be a surprise. If it was ruined, Mom would blame him.
“What uproar?” he asked.
Brett grinned. “Come on, we both know Mom. And don’t worry, I’ll pretend to be surprised.” Then he sighed. “I’m just worried about Tory. She isn’t very big on gatherings of any kind.”
Ryan’s frown deepened. “Why the hell not?”
Brett shook his head. “I don’t know. I think it has something to do with her childhood.”
“You’ve lived with that woman for three years, and you still don’t know her, do you?”
“I know enough,” Brett said shortly. “Look, we’re almost home.”
Ryan heard the warning in his brother’s voice and knew he’d said enough.
“Remember, I didn’t say a word about this,” Ryan muttered, as they pulled into the apartment complex and parked.
The closer they got to Brett’s apartment, the more anxious he became. The sounds of laughter drifted down the hall toward them, and just for a moment he wished he were coming back alone. As much as he loved his family, he needed some time alone with Tory. His beautiful woman. His love.
He thought of her smile and the way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating. His stomach knotted, remembering the slow, deep breath she took as he entered her body. He remembered the shadows in her eyes—the ones that hid secrets she didn’t know how to share. Tory. His Tory.
Ryan paused at the door and rang the bell. “We’re here,” he said. “Act surprised.”
And then Cynthia opened the door and they were swept up in the moment.
***
Tory had her hands in dishwater when the doorbell rang. Before she could reach for a towel, someone else beat her to the door. Defeated before she’d had a chance to start, all she could do was watch as Brett’s family engulfed him and try not to let her disappointment show.
“Welcome home! Welcome home!”
The shouts came at Brett from every direction, and he accepted them gladly, smiling and answering the questions thrown at him as he pretended to be surprised, all the while looking for Tory. And then he saw her, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, a little apart from the rest of the crowd, as usual. Their gazes met and held. Brett exhaled slowly, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He gave his sister, Celia, a brotherly pat.
“Excuse me, sis, but there’s one welcome home kiss I don’t want to miss.”
Everyone turned to look at Tory and then suddenly found something else that needed to be done. Before Brett could move, Tory was in his arms, touching his face, his chest, then taking his hand and holding it against her cheek. Her eyes were filled with tears she refused to shed, but there was a smile on her face.
“Welcome home,” she said softly.
Brett groaned beneath his breath, then tilted her chin and kissed her. Her lips were soft, yielding to the demands of his own, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, enfolding her within an inescapable embrace.
“Be careful,” Tory whispered, lightly touching his shoulder as a reminder of his injury.
Brett looked down at her and grinned. “No, baby, you’re the one who’d better be careful. Something tells me you’re in danger of being had. Do you remember what I told you just before I left here three weeks ago?”
She answered without missing a beat. “You told me to ‘hold that thought.’”
He chuckled. “Good girl. You were paying attention.”
She smiled. “I never forget the things that matter.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise later,” he whispered, and put his arm around her, refusing to let her pull away as he headed toward the living room and the party that was going on.
Even as Tory let herself be led into the midst of his family, her own words began to haunt her.
Never forget the things that matter. Never forget. Never forget.
Then why couldn’t she remember the tattooed man from the picture? It was obvious there was something about him that had triggered a memory from her past. So why… why in God’s name, couldn’t she remember?
***
The apartment was quiet. At Brett’s request, Ryan had hustled the entire family to a nearby motel to spend the night, giving him and Tory some much needed breathing space. And now he stood within the silence of his home, aware of the sounds of the city beyond the walls, but even more aware of his woman within. He shrugged his shoulder, gently rotating the muscles to test for soreness, then winced when they pulled. The evening had been long and tiring, and he had several more weeks of therapy before he would regain full mobility. But he was filled with a sense of peace.
In the next room, Tory was taking a shower. She, too, had been exhausted by the events of the last three weeks. Her space had been thoroughly invaded, and yet Brett was surprised at how well she seemed to have adapted. Hope sprang in his heart as he headed for the bedroom. Even if they didn’t understand her, his family genuinely liked her, and from what he could tell, she liked them, as well.
His thoughts were interrupted as the sounds of running water suddenly ceased. At that moment, everything else in this world became insignificant compared to the fact that he and Tory were finally alone.
***
Water droplets clung to the tips of Tory’s hair as she stepped out of the shower, blindly reaching for a towel. Instead of terry cloth, her hand connected with the unyielding force of a hard, naked body, and her eyes flew open. Brett! Her gaze locked on the fire in his eyes and then instinctively moved to the red and healing wound on his shoulder.
“Don’t,” he said softly, and pulled her against him.
She closed her eyes, momentarily yielding to his insistence. “Oh, Brett, I’m afraid.”
He nuzzled the lobe of her ear, licking the moisture from her skin in slow, sensuous strokes. “Of what?” he growled.
She reached toward his shoulder. “Of hurting you.”
He paused, then guided her hand downward. “The only way you can hurt me is if we stop now.”
Tory’s fingers encircled him, taking in the fullness of his arousal. The need to be with him was strong within her, to feel alive again within this man’s embrace. Her conscience told her they should wait, but her need for this man was greater as she let herself be led into the bedroom. As he urged her down to the bed, she remembered the clean sheets she’d put on it only this morning.
“Oh, Brett, I’m all wet.”
He eased a hand between her legs and smiled when she groaned. “Ooh, baby, you sure are,” he whispered, and lowered his head.
***
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The little girl hovered in the darkness, her eyes closed, her hands pressed tightly to her ears. But no matter how hard she tried, the sounds came closer and closer.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
In terror, she opened her eyes, watching as they crawled up the walls and dropped from the ceiling. Black ones. Brown ones. Even long, blood-red ones. Little ones. Big ones. Their spiny-looking tails hooked over their backs as they scurried about on little claw feet.
One fell on her shoulder and then another on her skirt. In a panic, she brushed them away. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. She began backing into the closet behind her, moving farther and farther, until there was nowhere left to go. She held her breath, p
retending that if they couldn’t hear her, they couldn’t find her. But it was no use. The scorpions! They were everywhere… and they were coming for her.
Tory woke with a jerk and sat up in bed, swallowing the scream before it came out of her mouth. Sweat streamed from her body as she crawled out of bed and reached for her robe. Careful not to disturb Brett’s sleep, she opened the sliding doors and slipped out of the bedroom and onto the balcony beyond. Outside, the air was heavy and still. She glanced up at the sky, wishing it would rain. Rain was good. Rain washed away all things ugly. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. But instead of feeling better that she was no longer enclosed, she felt edgier. She was scared. Something was going on inside her head that she couldn’t control. It was getting to the point where she dreaded the night. Every time she went to bed and closed her eyes, she saw that scorpion tattoo on that old man’s face. Even when she was awake, her thoughts were never far from the image of his face in the crowd.
She glanced back into the bedroom behind her, watching Brett as he slept. Her beloved. She looked back to the streets and the city beyond, thinking back to last week and the day he’d come home from the hospital. She’d been ill at ease within the uproar of his loving family, and yet she’d so wanted to be a part of it.
His mother had been the last to leave, and even as she was bidding them both goodbye, Tory had felt herself pulling away from the love the woman offered. In that moment, a revelation came. Tory’s breath caught in the back of her throat as tears filmed her view of the city by night.
Why won’t I let myself be loved?
The sudden scream of a siren pierced the night, and Tory shivered. Somewhere, someone else was in danger… or in need.
God be with them… and those they love.
An urgency came over her, a need to reconnect with Brett. To touch him, to hold him, to know that his body was warm and alive and she was in his arms. She turned around and slipped back into the bedroom as silently as she’d come out, crawling back into bed with Brett, then sighing with satisfaction as he resettled himself up against her.
But even though she knew she was safe behind these walls and lying in the arms of a man who loved her, the anxiety within her wouldn’t ease. She watched the night sky until it began to turn. Long before it was daylight, Tory knew what she needed to do.
***
Brett woke with a suddenness that startled him and he realized he was alone in the bed. Since he’d come home from the hospital, it wasn’t uncommon for Tory to let him sleep in, but there was an emptiness within the house that hadn’t been there when he had gone to sleep. He glanced over at the closet. The door was standing ajar, and he knew without looking that some of her clothes would be gone.
No, Tory. Not now!
He rolled out of bed and reached for his sweats, pulling them on with impatience as he strode toward the living room. It was as empty as the pit of his stomach. Anger surged within him as he searched the apartment, room by room, looking for a note, praying for an explanation. There was none. He barged into her darkroom, flipping on the lights as he went, and then stopped in midstep, too stunned to move.
They were everywhere—hanging from hooks, pinned to the walls, lying on tables, tossed aside on the floor. Dozens upon dozens of the same image: oversize blowups of an old man’s face and the curl-tailed scorpion tattooed upon his cheek.
He picked one up, then another and another, swallowing a fear he couldn’t name as he stood within the small enclosed space, imagining Tory in here, creating and recreating the same image over and over. But why? His hands were shaking as he looked into that old man’s face.
“I wish to God you could talk, because Tory won’t.”
Then he tossed the pictures aside and walked out, closing Tory’s devils inside.
He stood within the silence of his apartment, listening to the ticking of a clock and the echoes of a dying relationship. He didn’t know what to do anymore. There was nothing left inside of him with which to fight. And even if there had been, he couldn’t fight what he couldn’t see. There was something within Tory that wouldn’t let her believe—not in him—not even in herself.
Being shot was nothing to the pain inside him now. For three years he’d been living with an on-again, off-again love. And because he loved her, he’d taken what she was willing to give. But in the last few moments, Brett had had a revelation he could no longer ignore. He would never deny that Victoria Lancaster was the love of his life, but he was no longer convinced he was hers.
He looked around the apartment, noting what little bits and pieces of Tory had been left behind. A tortoiseshell hair comb on the coffee table. An empty film container in the trash. Extra prints of the piece she’d just written. Little things. Unimportant things. He sighed. It was always the same. Each time she left, she took everything with her that mattered.
And in that moment, the truth hit. Brett staggered to a nearby chair and dropped into it. He was part of what she kept leaving behind.
Oh God.
He leaned forward, then covered his face with his hands. Maybe he’d been going about loving Victoria Lancaster all wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have pressured her to move in with him all those years ago. Something was terribly wrong with this picture or she wouldn’t keep leaving him over and over without so much as a word.
He stared at the floor without moving as the day began to pass. Noon came and went, and he ignored the hunger pangs in his belly, instead walking the floor and wrestling with his conscience and his heart. Night came, and he let it close in around him without turning on lights, taking what little comfort he could draw from the refuge of darkness.
Sometime during the early morning hours, he went to bed. His heart was heavy, but his reasoning sure. He knew what he had to do. He’d learned the hard way how precious and brief life could be. Even if it broke his heart into a million pieces, he was going to give Tory her space. The only way he knew how to do that was to be gone when she came back. The lease on the apartment was paid up until the end of the year, so her things would be safe here until she returned. He would leave his new address and phone number with the manager, in case she wanted to find him. Other than that, Brett Hooker was through playing games.
***
Tory drove without conscious thought, retracing her journey with the carnival circuit. From her notes, she had pinpointed the town in which the crowd shot had been taken. It was Dellpoint, Iowa. But she had no way of knowing if the old man in the picture had been with the carnival, or if he was a local. And she also had to face the fact that he could have been someone just passing through—a total stranger to everyone concerned. But the urgency to find answers kept her moving northward.
A stack of reprints of the old man’s face was on the seat beside her. When she got there, she would start passing them around. Maybe, just maybe, she would get lucky.
She passed an Oklahoma highway-patrol car as she crossed the border into Kansas and thought of Brett.
I should have waited. I should have talked to him. He deserves to know what’s happening to me.
And then she sighed in defeat. There wasn’t anything to tell, because she didn’t know what was happening. All she would do was make more trouble for him while he was trying to get well.
What could I say? I have dreams? Everyone has dreams. But I dream about bad things I can’t even remember. How do I know they’re bad? Because I wake up choking on my own sobs and screams.
She glanced down at the road map beside her and then back up at the highway as an emptiness seized her. She didn’t know why or how she knew it, but somehow that old man held the answers to a life’s worth of questions. But if she couldn’t find him, then this time, when she went home, she would make an appointment to see a psychiatrist. Brett deserved a whole woman, not someone who was afraid to love. She shuddered. The thought of losing him was impossible to consider. He was the anchor in her world.
***
Dellpoint, Iowa, population 1,354, was corn belt cou
ntry. An unlikely place for a man with a scorpion tattoo on his face to reside. Two days after leaving Oklahoma, she pulled up to the only motel in town, breathing a sigh of relief as she got out of the car. She would get a room, then call Brett. If he wasn’t home, she would leave him a message.
The man behind the desk gave her a studied look as she walked into the office.
“Afternoon, ma’am. Be needin’ a room?”
She nodded and slid a picture of the old man’s face across the counter.
“No smoking room, please,” she said, and then added, “Have you ever seen this man?”
He picked up the picture, tilting it toward the light for a better look, then shook his head.
“Nope. Can’t say as I have.” Then he added. “Are you the law?”
Tory looked startled. “No. Why would you ask?”
He shrugged. “No reason, I guess, ’cept that fella looks pretty rough. Didn’t figure he was any of your kin, you bein’ so pretty and all.”
Tory didn’t know whether to be pleased by the compliment or worry even more. Her memories went only as far back as the foster homes. Before that, it was anyone’s guess. And the fact was not lost on her that if the old man’s face had given her nightmares, there was every possibility that he was part of the past she refused to remember.
God help me, she thought, signed the register, pocketed her key, then picked up her picture and left.
Her room was this side of pathetic, which suited her mood perfectly. The urgency to connect with Brett was even greater than before as she dumped her bag on the bed and reached for the phone. The call went through, and she counted the rings, with each one expecting to hear the sound of his voice. When it rang seven, then eight, times and even the answering machine didn’t pick up, she disconnected, telling herself he had probably gone out and forgotten to turn on the machine.
She glanced at her watch. It was just past three in the afternoon. Her stomach grumbled, a complaint about the peanut butter crackers and pop that had been today’s breakfast and lunch. She was hot and sweaty, and her clothes looked as if she’d slept in them, which she had. As badly as she wanted to start her search, there were some priorities that needed to be observed. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she probably needed a bath, a change of clothes and then food.