“Elise,” he said, tearing me away from my thoughts of what position I wanted him to fuck me in.
What the hell was wrong with me? He was the complete opposite of my type. I’d never look twice at him if we passed on the streets. He was nice. He was sweet. He didn’t look like he’d be a pick for this month’s Playgirl magazine.
So why was my body tingling in desperation for him? I was awed at his attentiveness while he cleaned me up. He was careful lover, I was sure of it. That’s exactly what I didn’t like. I wasn’t a slow and sensual kind of girl, I liked it raw and unemotional. There were no emotions when a guy pulled my hair and slapped my ass while I rode him. We were just two people fucking to get our frustrations out. So why was I imagining how Weston was in bed?
“Huh?” I finally asked.
“Do you want me to cut it up or down?” He snapped the scissors open and then closed.
“Up is fine.” My voice was squeaky as the words fell out.
Anxiousness riddled through me for his hands to touch me again. Maybe he shared the same feeling and he wanted me as bad as I wanted him. We’d end up in his bed and he’d take care of me in a better way.
He stepped forward, the scissors hitting the fabric as he held up my dress and began cutting. He didn’t venture between my thighs or cleavage as he cut into it carefully. The dress split in two, skimming the pit in between my breasts, and he did a double take when he noticed I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Hold onto the tub for leverage,” he instructed, pulling me up and the dress fell off my body. He grabbed the bandage from the floor and began wrapping my sides. “I’ll try to be as careful as I can. I’m leaving it a little loose so we don’t do any damage to your lungs.”
The pain died down with each wrap. He grabbed the blanket off of the floor when he was finished and wrapped it back around my body.
“I have a guest room and bath down the hallway. You probably want to shower and clean yourself up. Try not to get the bandage too wet,” he said. I sighed in disappointment. I guess he wasn’t going to be sharing his bed tonight.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I said.
He helped me to the bathroom and handed me a towel. “Keep the door unlocked, and yell for me if you need anything,” he said, leaving the room. I unraveled the blanket from my body and leaned against the vanity while I waited for the water to heat up. I scraped my hand through my hair and took a good look at my reflection in the mirror.
I could make out the faint bruises beginning to stretch along the tan skin of my cheeks. One of my dark, slanted eyes were swollen shut. My lip was busted and puffy. My hair was a ratted mess. I crossed my fingers along the scrapes of my neck and looked down to see more along my breasts. Weston was right. Oliver really had done a number one me.
I carefully climbed into the shower and my body burned as the heated water ran down my sore skin. I rested my hand against the wall to balance myself, letting the water stream down my body, and I cried.
The shower was my sanctuary of release. It was my place of liberation. The only place I allowed myself to get emotional. I’d whisper my secrets to the water and then they’d wash away into the unknown.
I walked to the bedroom when I was finished to find a pair of sweats and a t-shirt sitting on the bed. I quickly dropped my towel, pulled them on, and headed back into the living room.
“Are you hungry?” Weston asked, standing in the kitchen. “I can make you a sandwich or some soup, if you’d like?”
I yawned. “I’m good, thanks. I’m going to go to bed. I’m exhausted.”
He turned around to grab a glass of water and held up a bottle of ibuprofen so I could read the label. He unscrewed the cap, dropped a few into his hand and held them out to me.
“You’re going to need these,” he said. I grabbed the pills and swallowed them down. “Let me know if you need anything else. Goodnight, Elise.”
I noticed my phone and clutch sitting on the nightstand when I walked into the room. I slid into the cold sheets, inhaling the scent of fresh cotton, and knew I’d be fighting sleep.
I rested on my back and thought about Weston. I’d never had anyone go out of their way to help me like he had tonight. I had Bella, my old housekeeper and nanny, but she was paid to take care of me and be nice. Weston wasn’t getting anything out of me being there and he was treating me better than those who got a paycheck.
CHAPTER FOUR
WESTON
I was a fixer. I’d been one for as long as I could remember. I was the mediator between my brother and sister, and the person they came to with problems when they were afraid they’d get in trouble with our parents. I helped my parents by keeping my brother out of trouble. I fixed my elderly neighbor’s pipes when they got clogged, and made sure I was home every Saturday morning to help her carry up groceries.
If where was a problem or dispute, I wanted to mend it. I didn’t like people, or things to be broken. So I made it my job to do just that.
“I’m so fucked,” I muttered, slapping my palm into my forehead after Elise disappeared into my guest room. I shouldn’t have let her come here. I was an idiot. Me helping her, her being in my home, could cost me everything I’d been working my ass off for. This twenty-year old woman could ruin my entire career.
I needed her gone, and I needed to find the fortitude to make it happen. For some reason, I couldn’t muster up the power to tell her to get out. My mind was disoriented and playing with my decisions. It wanted her here, but I couldn’t have her here. I wasn’t sure which was worse: kicking her out and never knowing her, or allowing her to get close and fucking everything up.
I blew out a low breath while shutting off my lights, and then ventured to my bathroom to clean up. My gaze shot directly to the ripped up dress thrown in the corner. My throat burned as I scooped it up and skated my fingertips along the sheen satin that smelled of a flowery perfume.
I rubbed the back of my neck, using my knuckles to knead into my tense skin. I’d had my hands on her. I’d seen plenty of naked women in my life, but even with the cuts and bruises, she was the most breathtaking. She’d looked so innocent looking up at me as she handed herself over for me to patch her up.
My brain swept back to what I’d tried to ignore. She’d been turned on by my touch. I could tell. I’d ached, wanting to cave in with my own desire, but I held back. I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t that kind of guy. She didn’t need me hitting on her in a moment of weakness. She’d just been beat up by a man. She sure as hell didn’t need another one groping her a few hours later.
My chest constricted, anger boiling up inside of me like a volcano, when I noticed the dark red blood splatters smeared against the black fabric. I knotted the dress up, my pulse shoving into my throat, and snatched up the scissors. I rammed the blades through it, not stopping until it consisted of only tiny slivers at my feet.
I wasn’t sure who’d hurt her, but I knew it was a man. I fucking hated men who put their hands on women. Scratch that. They couldn’t even be classified as men. They were pussies, and she needed to quit hanging out with pussies. Real men respected women, they loved women, and they sure as fuck didn’t beat them to a bloody pulp then leave them stranded in an alley.
I tossed the remnants of the dress into the trashcan on my way back to my bedroom and collapsed onto my bed without bothering to undress.
I’d wanted to scream at her and insist she quit making such stupid decision. This woman, she fascinated me, as she self-destructed like it was her middle name, afflicting herself with as much pain as possible. I didn’t understand her. If she’d quit trying to lash out at everyone to make a goddamned point, maybe she’d finally see how truly remarkable she was.
When I’d spotted her at the coffee shop, I should’ve turned around and ran. But I was too stunned to move. I’d waited in line, using every ounce of self-control to not turn around and stare at her. Even with only the few glances I’d managed to sneak in, there was no mistaking it was her.
The woman sitting only inches away from me sipping on her coffee had tried to destroy me because she weak and scared.
Her brown, slanted eyes that had stared at me with such hate were burned into my brain. The color had reminded me of the autumn leaves that fell every year at my grandfather’s property down in Tennessee.
Her jet-black, glossy hair was swept back in a loose braid that fell to the crook of her neck, the same style she’d worn three years ago. Her cherry red lips slowly parted each time she took a long drawl from her cup. She looked stunning sitting there, looking lost in the sea of faces where no one knew her story. Except for me.
It was humiliating to admit, but I’d dreamed about her. No so frequently anymore, but after we’d met, I was doing it almost nightly. I’d shut my eyes at night and my mind would wander back to the girl who’d perplexed me on my very first day. I’d been so young and inexperienced that I hadn’t been sure how to handle her.
I stood there, repeatedly telling myself to grab my coffee and get the hell out of there. I told myself not to go there, but I didn’t stick with my plan. Instead, I grabbed my coffee and headed directly to her. I was helplessly pulled in her direction and lost all control over my body.
I had so many questions for her. I wanted to know the rest of her story. I wanted to know why she was here in Chicago. I wanted her to let me in like I’d begged her to years ago. I wanted to know everything about her.
But she’d acted like she couldn’t even stand to look at me. Her lips grimaced like my presence made her uncomfortable, so I left my business card and walked away, doubting she’d ever make use of it.
Giving her that card was the stupidest, yet smartest, fucking decision I’d ever made in my life. If she hadn’t had my number, I would’ve never been able to rescue her.
I pulled the blankets up my body, and switched off my bedside lamp. I wanted to know what had happened to her tonight. I wanted to know who’d hurt her and how bad the damage was. Then I wanted to fix every piece of her.
CHAPTER FIVE
THREE YEARS AGO
WESTON
I was twenty-five, newly graduated, and had just completed my last internship. The market was so saturated, and finding a job was hell. Sun Gate Rehabilitation Center was five hours away, but they were willing to take in a new guy and pay decently. Not great, but decent. So I packed up my things and left the Windy City for the Indiana cornfields.
I met her on my first day. My first two patient appointments had gone through smooth, and I was building up some confidence. Then she showed up with her attitude and sharp nails to deflate all of that intrepidity.
I hadn’t been ready for her. I wasn’t prepared for this sassy fireball to come barreling in and shoot me flames of attitude as her defense mechanism. She was trying to shield herself because she didn’t want me to see the pain and hate exploding through her.
I’d been given her backstory. She was a spoiled seventeen year-old woman who was on a mission to destroy herself, and she didn’t care who, or what she took down with her. She misbehaved when things didn’t go her way, spending her free time drinking underage in nightclubs and experimenting with drugs. She’d been caught screwing one of her dad’s business partners, along with a few other older men. The reason for her wrongdoings was apparently some vengeance to get back at her father.
Even with all of that forewarning, I still hadn’t been ready. There was no preparation for this woman flying down the hallway with full force, her face twisted with fury as she glared at me standing in the doorway. She looked like she wanted to rip my head off and stomp on it before I’d even said a word to her. I knew things were about to get challenging.
“I’m surprised they sent you,” she said, stopping directly in front of me and narrowing her eyes.
“Why’s that?” I asked, keeping my voice cool.
“They usually don’t send men because I fuck them.”
“I can assure you that won’t be happening.” My chest locked up while a giant lump lodged itself into the pit of my throat. I was surprised I could even get words out.
She smiled wickedly. “You sure about that?”
I gulped down the lump. I wasn’t sure if she was telling me that for shock value or if she was being honest. They told me she liked to play mind games. There was no way they’d hold back the fact that she’d been busted fucking other therapists.
“So who the fuck are you?” She asked, abrasively, her hands flying to her hips.
I took a moment to look at the girl who’d been labeled unstable and out-of-control before answering her. She was breathtaking, and I felt like a complete jackass for thinking that because she was only seventeen, but there was no denying it.
It wasn’t a, “I want to sleep with you,” kind of beauty. Her features, from the long, dark hair to the plump lips, and the endless curves were attractive. Her face was clear of any make-up, and her brown smoldering eyes leveled on me like I was her prey for the day. She might’ve been pretty on the outside, but on the inside she was hideous, dark, and deceptive.
“I’m Weston,” I said, calmly. “I’m your psychiatrist for the remainder of your stay.” I grunted, my side colliding with the doorframe when her hip pushed into my stomach and she squeezed her way into the room.
“Where the hell is Patterson?” She snapped, pivoting around on her heels to look at me when she found the room empty.
“She resigned,” I told her, shutting the door. “I’m taking over all of her patients.”
Patterson had actually been fired because she was letting her patients watch TV instead of trying to help them with their problems, and I was positive the girl in front of me had been one to take full advantage of that. But that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen with me. I took my job seriously.
I shuffled around the room to gather my things, and she plopped down on the couch. I snatched up a folder sitting on the edge of the desk, and rolled a chair forward until we were sitting only a few inches apart from each other.
I took a deep breath of courage. This was a teenage girl for fuck sakes, why she was intimidating the shit out of me? I needed to get my shit together. I’d gone through years of school and training to deal with people like her.
“I’ve looked through your file,” I began, opening up the folder in my lap. I scratched my head as I focused on the first page. “Why don’t we go over your history? Get to know each other? We can talk about why you’re here.”
That was a good start. I was doing what I’d been trained to do. Let them talk to you. Allow them to open up. Gain their trust.
I kept my eyes trained on her while waiting for her reply, but she sat quietly playing with her braid. Well, that plan wasn’t going to work.
I crossed my legs and took another deep, long breath to calm my nerves. “Alright then, let’s start with the history of your drug and alcohol addiction.”
That got a reaction out of her. She snorted and pushed a few strands of hair away from her face. “Drug addiction?” She asked. “No.” I leaned back in my chair, slowly opening up my mouth to argue, but slammed it shut when she kept talking. “Yes, I drink and take pills recreationally, but I don’t have an addiction.”
“Those pills are narcotics,” I pointed out. “Narcotics are drugs.”
“Look Weston, it’s not like I’m syringing heroin into my veins, or hanging out in some beat-up garage in a sketchy neighborhood toking on meth,” she argued, defensively.
“I see you’re still in denial,” I said, settling my gaze on her. “You’ve overdosed twice. I’m sorry, Miss Parks, deny it all you want, but you have an addiction.”
She held up a finger. “First off, don’t call me Miss Parks, my name is Elise.” She curled her upper lip. “And check your facts again, doctor, those overdoses were over two years ago. I know my limits now. You try living in my hell. Tell me you wouldn’t be doing anything to numb yourself, too.”
“You shouldn’t have limits because you shouldn’t be doing these things.”
She waved her hand in the air. “What else do you allegedly know about me?” She asked in a nasty tone, changing the subject. Apparently, she was calling the shots.
I looked down at the paper. “Sexual promiscuity, preferably with older men.”
She flinched, every muscle in her body tensing up, and instantly paled. The room suddenly shifted, and I knew this was it. This is what affected her. It was what she was scared of.
She quickly regained her composure, shooting me an annoyed glare. “I’m not going to deny that I have sex, probably more than I should, but it happens. But as far at the other part, the jab in my spine to keep me down, I think it’s a bit unfair to classify it as promiscuity.”
“Why is that?” Her guard was coming down and I couldn’t wait to dig in. I wanted to crack open her mind and discover everything hidden inside.
“Does me being held down, my legs pried open, while someone shoves themselves inside of me mean I’m promiscuous?”
I almost fell out of my chair. My mind began to drum as I scrambled for the right words. What? Why hadn’t I been told this?
“Are you telling me you were raped?” I asked, hastily flipping through the pages, but not seeing anything. “There’s no mention of you being sexually assaulted in here.” I kept turning pages, skimming over words, but saw nothing.
Then I found them, two small almost hidden words. Peter Kline.
“Are you talking about Peter Kline?” I asked, tapping my finger against his name.
She threw her head back. “God,” she groaned. “No, I’m not talking about Peter Kline. I fucked him willingly. I’m so goddamned sick of him being used as a cop-out. I’m talking about the other guys.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not seeing anything,” I said, slowly. “Have you told anyone else?”
“Of course I have, jackass. Are you calling me a liar?”
I shook my head. “I’m not calling you a liar,” I stammered. I needed to look into this. Why would they leave this out?
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