Dark Touch

by Aimee L. Salter

  I will not return to this.

  I whisper the words. “I’m never coming back.”

  It feels good to say that. But there’s a catch, too. A beat, deep in my chest.

  Why would I feel like there’s something here that I don’t want to lose? This place, this life, was hellish until Chris came along.

  Then, like a movie flickering to life on the big screen of my mind, he’s there.

  Chris holding my hand.

  Chris throwing my clothes on the floor so he can sit in my chair.

  Chris rolling me into the blankets, then lying on top of them to sleep with me, holding me close.

  Chris kissing me.

  Then the warm liquid of those memories is scarred by the ones that follow.

  Chris angry at my dad.

  Chris flying at Rudy.

  Chris angry at me.

  I shove them away, regret them, vow I’ll never do that to him, to anyone, ever again. I will not be that person ever again. I will not go back. I may stumble, but I will not fall.

  Then, in the gray light of my old life, some of what Davida has been telling me for the past month clicks into place. I don’t have to hurt people like I did before, because I’m capable of change. I don’t have to turn into my father. I don’t even have to be the worst of me.

  With a final glance and tears threatening, I turn my back and walk out of that room—out of that life—forever.

  I know exactly where I’m headed.

  When I reach the driveway, Catherine’s there, on the phone. My own phone is deadweight in my pocket, pulling at me. Catherine sees me and ends her call with a slightly puzzled expression. She pulls her coat tighter around herself.

  “You okay?”

  I let the smile come because I can’t stop it. “Yeah. Actually. I think I am.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Well . . . good?”

  “I’m going for a walk,” I say. “I want to go see Nigel.”

  “It’s a long way back home.”

  Home? The halfway house isn’t home. Home is where your heart is. And mine is resolutely resting at Chris’s feet. “I know. I’ll make sure I’m there before dark.”

  “Okay,” she says reluctantly. “And you have to call Davida tonight, remember.”

  “Yes, I will. Don’t worry.”

  It seems to take forever for her to accept that I’m okay. But finally she’s gone and I’m walking down the sidewalk so fast I’m almost running.

  As soon as her car turns the corner out of sight and doesn’t come back I pull my phone out and dial his number.

  Chris answers on the first ring. “Tully?” He sounds surprised.

  “I need to see you,” I say, breathless and giddy and every kind of terrified.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Where are you?”

  “I’ll be at Nigel in five minutes.”

  “Then I’ll see you there.”

  We both hang up. I start to run.

  Chapter 43

  Nigel’s rusted bumper greets me in the clearing and my sight blurs. It’s like being reunited with an old friend. I climb inside him, and my heart pangs as I take in all the little things Chris did for him at the end. I run a finger along the perfectly framed window and refuse to cry. I am so sick of crying.

  I sit on the bed. There’s nothing to do but wait.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach, brighter and more furious with each passing second. When the sound of an engine finally rumbles into the clearing, the jitters spike so hard I lose my breath.

  He’s here. Chris is here.

  I climb carefully out of Nigel and stand on the tufts of grass outside, the ground hard and frozen under my feet.

  Chris pulls the Jeep near the lean-to. Before the engine’s even off, he turns and locks eyes with me, something cautious and uncertain in his gaze.

  I grieve for the confident, naïve guy I met. The one who assumed everyone would love him. Who never expected pain, or guarded against it. For a second my own confidence falters. When he eases out of the Jeep the tingling in my stomach whips into a hurricane.

  Chris is wearing jeans that hang off his hips, a gray sweater that almost matches his eyes, and a black jacket I haven’t seen before. There’s visible stubble covering his jaw and I want to touch it. He stands next to the car with his hands in his pockets, raking me from head to toe like he’s searching for something.

  “Hey,” he says softly.

  “Hi.”

  He doesn’t close the space between us and I’m not sure how to do it. I take a faltering step, then stop. Fold my arms. “Thanks for coming so fast. I know this is a little weird.”

  “Anytime.” He’s still peering at me, like he’s confused. Afraid.

  I clear my throat. “I never thanked you, before, for Nigel. What you did.” We both look at the truck, then each other.

  “It’s fine. I was glad to help.” He sounds like we’re in a business meeting.

  I can feel my forehead crease. Chris tips his head slightly, the wariness in him growing. My panic mounts. How do I do this? How do I say any of this?

  Then it occurs to me that I don’t have to.

  Bracing myself, I cross the frozen ground until I’m standing right in front of him. He stiffens as I approach. I bite my lip and hold out my hand.

  Chris’s eyebrows flick up. He looks between my hand and my face. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. As much as I want him to feel me, I need to feel him, too. I leave my hand out, palm up, until he pulls his hand out of his pocket. It’s shaking. A tiny cheerleader in my chest does a backflip as his palm slides into mine. Our fingers twine and everything that’s in me rushes out, rocking him onto his heels.

  Love. Want. Guilt. Hope?

  His head drops back and a bolt of nerves jags through me. He’s trembling as he steps into my space. Then he tips his chin down until his lips are next to my ear.

  “Tully.” His ragged voice cracks and I’m swept into the river of my love for him. It breaks through the walls around my heart and finally he’s there, washing me in the same emotions.

  Faltering hope. Desire. So much love . . .

  I’m not sure if I find his lips, or he finds mine. His free arm snakes around my back and pulls me in. I go willingly, needing him to feel how much I want him and how much I’ve missed him.

  “Tully, I . . .” he says against my lips. Then I feel his growing doubt, the creep of fear.

  I drop my forehead against his collarbone and try to catch my breath. He hasn’t let me go. But he’s still shaking. One hand fisted in the back of my jacket, the other gripping mine so hard I’m losing circulation.

  He’s terrified, and I can’t blame him. I curse myself for the pain I’ve caused him. The shadows I’ve put in his eyes. The trust I’ve betrayed.

  I tug my hand out of his. I have to find my words, to make him believe. I cup his face with both hands.

  “Forgive me,” I whisper, and our lips almost brush. “I’d take it all back if I could. I didn’t know how to handle what we had and I’m so, so sorry I hurt you. I . . . Chris, I love you. Can you forgive me?”

  For several seconds, he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

  Terror washes through me. This is the moment I feared. The one I’ve been avoiding. The one I have to face.

  Then, like clouds breaking to let the sun through, he lights up. All the tension drains out of him and he sinks into me.

  “I forgave you as soon as it happened . . .” he says hoarsely, and I feel the vibrations in his chest. “It just hurt so much when you didn’t want me anymore.”

  “I never stopped loving you,” I say, and the tears are there. “I never will. I just . . .” I pull back far enough to meet his eyes through the blur in my own. “I need you to know that you can’t fix me. I’ll always be a little bit broken, I think. And you won’t be able to fix me.”

  He lif
ts one of his hands from my hip, traces a piece of hair from my temple behind my ear.

  “I don’t want to fix you, Tully. I already love you. Exactly like this. And those times when things go wrong? That’s what forgiveness is for.”

  A sob leaves my throat, but he covers my mouth with his, takes the pain and the fear and the embarrassment flooding through me. Replaces it with acceptance, with joy. There, in the safety of his arms, I marvel at what he offers so freely and I’m finally able to give back.

  And even when the sun begins to dip behind the trees, and we reluctantly slip apart, I keep one hand twined through his. I vow to leave it there every second we’re together, to soak in his light—and let my love out.

  Thank you for reading Tully’s story! If you enjoyed it, please consider supporting the author by posting a review on Amazon.

  A Note from the Author

  Because this is a novel, it would be easy to dismiss the issues and events as melodramatic. Easy to say, “That doesn’t really happen.” But issues of addiction, abuse, and exploitation are all too common and can descend into some very ugly places.

  If you suspect someone is in a dark place, I encourage you to ask them. Ask them more than once. And offer help without strings attached. Don’t judge. Just care. And tell them so.

  If you are being hurt, I urge you to tell someone. Your life doesn’t have to be this way. It can be easier, and you are worth whatever it takes to make it so. If there’s no one in your life you trust to help, please talk to the wonderful volunteers at these amazing organizations who will help and support without judgment:

  Alcoholics Anonymous & Narconon (narcotics addiction)

  http://www.aa.org/ or http://www.narconon.org

  Families Anonymous (support for family/friends of addicts)

  http://www.familiesanonymous.org/

  Sexually Exploited or Physically Abused Youth

  In the USA:

  MISSSEY (Motivating, Inspiring, Supporting & Serving Sexually Exploited Youth)

  http://misssey.org/ or 1-888-373-7888

  Childhelp (prevention and treatment of child abuse)

  http://www.childhelp.org or call 1-800-422-4453

  In the UK:

  NSPCC (National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children)

  (Serving both sexually exploited and physically abused minors)

  https://www.nspcc.org.uk

  Concerned adults can phone 0808 800 5000. Under 18s can reach out to 0800 1111

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Jesus, for this life you’ve given me. Your unconditional love has carried me through the toughest year so far, and the toughest story to write. Thank you for forgiving me, and for being so trustworthy even when I’m not. You’re my safe place to land.

  Knowing how many women experience the same pains as Tully, it’s been a harrowing journey to try to accurately express her fear and strength. I know I’ve missed the mark many times. But I did my best.

  Anything I got right lands squarely on the shoulders of Dawn Grant and the other women who trusted me and told me about their lives. Dawn let me into her world all the way back in seventh grade, at a time when neither of us had the experience or resources to do anything about what was there. Now she and so many others I care about demonstrate a strength and resilience that leave me breathless with admiration.

  Dawn, while there’s nothing I can do to erase the wounds of the past, I will always wish I could. And looking to the future, I vow to raise a son who is much closer to Chris in character than Tully’s father.

  No writer can get through this lengthy process without a great deal of support from an army of people. The admiral of my army has always been, and continues to be, my husband, Alan, who not only tells me to write and supports me in this crazy career choice, but keeps me awake at night talking about it. Alan, next time I say, “Shut up and leave me alone so I can read,” it’s code for, “You’re incredible, and very sexy.” Remember that.

  Also: My husband deserves a coauthor credit because some of my best ideas come from him.

  And he very definitely didn’t tell me to say that.

  The other guy on the frontline is my son, now eight, who’s shared his entire life with a sometimes preoccupied, always forgetful mother. Thank you, Buster, for loving me even when I couldn’t hear you talk over the noise of the voices in my head. I pray that you grow up to be a protector (not violator) of any heart offered to you.

  I also remain grateful to:

  Dad, for being my primary example for Chris, and for always believing in me. Mum, for telling me why you believe in me. And both of you for building a family with the strength in God to carry us all through this past year, which has been terrifying and peaceful all at once.

  My big sister always shares my excitement, wants to hear details, and never forgets to ask for more. Heather, you’re a gift of a sister. You got skillz. Mad skillz. (Shout out to Liv, Cait, Alex, and Pete, too. I miss you guys so much!)

  Raewyn and Nyria, (IPCWG, represent!), my heart never leaves you, and my writing is always better for the mountain of advice you’ve given and let me pack up and carry halfway across the globe. You’re my honorary sisters who I promise I will never stop embarrassing, forever and ever, amen.

  Kelly, just because we’re family. And we still draw cartoon guys with X eyes.

  Mandy, who understood Tully even before she was fully formed. Emily didn’t, but loved me anyway. Thank you both. Cousins can be sisters, too.

  Tracy, what a crazy ride it’s been! One of the very best gifts from Alloy is finding you. Thank you also for pumpkin guts. Best. Idea. Ever. (But don’t tell Alan I said that)

  Vanitha Sankaran, Lila Felix, Melody Valadez, and Mary Elizabeth Summers are all amazing authors I can look up to (and have been willing to read my manuscripts, listen to my complaints about the writing life, sit through extensive unsolicited advice, and share tirades over Thai food, respectively). Thank you!

  Thank you, Stephanie (Slap-n-See!) and the team at Inkslinger for getting excited about my books and my thoughts, and being willing to pester other people to get excited about them, too. The whole red-carpet date offer stands. Just sayin’.

  There aren’t words for how grateful I am to Lanie Davis, editor extraordinaire, who I’m pretty sure wrangles unicorns in her spare time. I prayed for years to find an editor who would not only put up with me and my idiosyncrasies, but who would “get” my characters, and see through the sludge of my writing to understand what I’m trying to say. Lanie, you’re an answer to prayer, and a blessing, and you make me a much, much better writer. I’ll be forever grateful. (You can pass on my appreciation to Eliza and the rest of the team at Alloy in the form of Unicorn Poop cookies).

  And finally, you, dear reader, who made it this far (kudos for that, by the way). Thank you for being willing to join me in Tully’s journey. You’re the entire reason I’m here.

  About Aimee L. Salter

  Aimee L. Salter writes novels for teens and the occasional adult who, like herself, is still in touch with his or her inner high schooler. She never stopped appreciating those moments in the dark when you say what you’re really thinking. And she’ll always ask you about the things you wish she wouldn’t ask you about. Aimee lives in Oregon with her husband and son. Aimee blogs for both writers and readers at www.aimeelsalter.com. You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.

  If you loved Dark Touch,

  turn the page for an excerpt of Aimee L. Salter’s novel

  Seventeen-year-old Ashley Watson can’t walk through the halls of her high school without bullies taunting or shoving her. She can’t go a day without fighting with her mother. And no matter what she does, she can’t seem to make her best friend, Matt, fall in love with her. But she does have something no one else does: a literal glimpse into the future. When Ashley looks into the mirror, she can see her older self.


  But her older self is keeping a dark secret. Something terrible is about to happen to Ashley. Something that will change her life forever. Something even her older self is powerless to stop.

  As the psychiatrist enters the room, he offers me a patronizing smile. I return it in kind.

  He indicates for me to take a seat, then sinks into a worn leather chair, looking just like a doctor should: graying hair, well-trimmed beard, and wire-rimmed glasses I suspect he doesn’t actually need.

  We face each other over a glossy, mahogany coffee table. While he flips through my file, I scan the room. Shelves of creased paperbacks line the walls. The single window is framed by subtle drapes. There are doilies under the table lamps and two doors on opposing walls. This office resembles a living room—if I ignore the bars over the shatterproof windows. Kind of kills the good-time vibe.

  Doc clears his throat. I take a deep breath and turn back to him.

  “How are you, Ashley?” His voice is too loud for the muted tones of the room—all earthy browns and soft corners. The quietly ticking clock in the corner tells me it’s 9:34 am. That gives me about five hours to prove I’m normal and get out of this place once and for all. Five hours until her life goes to hell, if I don’t make it home in time. I focus on him, try to smile. It’s already been a rough morning, but I can’t tell him that, not yet.

  “I’m okay.” I shrug, then freeze. My stitches are only memory now, but searing pain lights up along the hard, pink lines spiderwebbing across most of my upper body. I breathe and wait for the jagged bolts to fade. My surgeon says I’m healing. But he forgot to mention that to the layers of mangled nerve endings beneath my fractured skin.

  “Pain?” Doc’s eyes snap to mine. The benign disinterest was an act. He is measuring me.

  “It’s fine. I just moved wrong,” I say breezily.

  My physical scars aren’t the reason I’m here. He can’t fix those. But he can help me by letting me out. As head of this facility, no one leaves without his approval.