EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE

by Debby Conrad

  Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her whole body had gone lax, had given up the fight.

  “Please . . . hurry,” she begged. “Get it . . . over . . . with.”

  Closing his own eyes momentarily, he swore aloud, wondering how he could be such an animal. Of all the stupid things to do. He released her wrists, but they still laid limp above her head. “Hollin, look at me.”

  She sobbed louder.

  “Dammit, Hollin,” he rasped, “open your eyes and look at me.”

  Choking on a sob, she peered up at him from beneath her wet lashes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his breath coming in short puffs. He shifted his body so that only one leg held her in place. Enough to make her realize he wasn’t going to take this thing any further, but that he wasn’t going to allow her to leave yet either. “Don’t you realize that if I’d wanted to rape you I could have done it while you were passed out? And I could have raped you just now, but I didn’t.”

  He saw her swallow. “Hollin, it wasn’t me that night. Don’t you remember asking me to stop when we were here, lying on this very same bed? I stopped. And then I drove you home.”

  She tossed her head back and forth. “You . . . came . . . back.”

  “I didn’t. I swear to you, I didn’t. I came directly back here, told everyone who was here that night to leave, and I went to bed.”

  She shook her head again. “No,” she whispered. “It was . . . you.”

  At the trial she’d claimed that she’d been raped and sodomized that night. In her own backyard. Had gone on to say that a man wearing a ski mask had grabbed her and pushed her face into the ground while he forced himself into her. Hearing her story had sickened him, knowing that someone had done that to her, and yet part of him had no sympathy as he was the one who was being accused of the crime. The whole trial had seemed like a bad dream, and throughout it he’d kept telling himself he’d wake up soon.

  She’d waited close to a week before reporting the incident to the authorities. By that time all traces of DNA were gone. The only evidence was her word against his, and an old pocket knife they’d found in a patch of lilies by her garage. A knife his mother had given him for his tenth birthday. He hadn’t realized he’d lost the stupid thing, hadn’t carried it in years. Anyone could have lifted it from the trailer and planted it there, or Griffin could have dropped it somewhere when he was a kid.

  Yet a jury still sided with her over him. The way she’d told her story in court, in front of all those people, he would have done the same thing had he been a member of that jury. Her story, as well as her tears, had been convincingly real. He could tell by the way she’d behaved in court. She’d definitely been raped, he would have bet his life on it. Only she’d blamed the wrong man for hurting her.

  Griffin closed his eyes in defeat. She was never going to believe it wasn’t him. Not in a million years.

  And after the way he’d behaved, only moments ago, how could he possibly blame her?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Griffin opened his eyes and stared down at her, his labored breaths matching hers in intensity. It was the first time Hollin had truly looked at his face since he’d walked into the trailer and surprised her.

  He hadn’t shaved that morning. Dark, brittle whiskers dotted his face and jaw. Her face still stung with whisker burn from when he’d kissed her.

  There was a knot on the side of his head where the heel of her shoe had done little damage to that thick skull of his.

  She could see something in his eyes that looked like sorrow, but she couldn’t be sure. Was he sorry? She doubted it.

  He opened his mouth, started to say something, but only shook his head instead. And then, he simply rolled off her and onto his back, staring up at the smoke stained ceiling.

  Hollin released a heavy sigh. She was free. She sucked in a long breath and blew it out. But rather than make her escape, she didn’t move a muscle. She was too tired to move. She felt drained, hollow inside. If she tried to run now, her legs would probably fail her rather than carry her to safety. Yet she knew she had to try.

  Then again, maybe his releasing her was a trick. He still had her car keys, and one of her shoes was lying somewhere on the floor.

  Closing her eyes briefly, she prayed for strength. She’d survived him once before, she could do it again. Wanting to make sure her limbs worked, she wiggled her fingers and toes, testing them, while trying to get her racing pulse and breathing under control. She wondered what he would say or do if she asked for her keys. Maybe he wanted her to beg for her freedom, although he was no longer imprisoning her with his big, powerful body.

  Before she’d worked up the courage to ask him for the keys, he turned his head toward her, his cheek only inches away from her own. “I’m never going to convince you of my innocence, am I?”

  Rather than answer, she wondered how far she would get without a car and wearing only one shoe. It was at least three miles to the main road. The road that ran along the front of the Whitaker farm. She sighed in resignation. Like he couldn’t catch her even if she hadn’t taken her shoe off to whack him in the head.

  Perhaps this was part of his game. He expected her to run, so he could chase her. Maybe that excited him. Maybe the reason he’d stopped with his assault was because she’d given up the fight. She’d practically begged him to finish the job. That must have stopped him cold, ruined his cheap, sick, sexual appetite for her.

  Slanting her gaze, she quickly looked at his crotch, just to confirm her suspicions. He no longer had an erection.

  Then again, some of what he’d said made sense. If he’d wanted to rape her, he could have done so while she was passed out. Or moments ago. Or the last time they’d been on this bed. Her brain battled with thoughts of confusion.

  Then, an even more terrifying thought washed over her. If Griffin hadn’t raped her that night, then who had? She pressed both hands to her burning eyes. She’d been so certain it was him. But now . . .

  Weariness enveloped her as she tried to think, concentrate.

  His shoulder bumped hers, and she soon realized he was much too close. Needing some space, she sat up slowly, afraid if she moved too quickly she would alarm him. She was relieved when he didn’t try to stop her. With her back to him, and her gaze on the doorway, she asked, “Why should I believe you?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded defeated. “I just don’t know anymore.” The bed shifted with his weight, and her spine stiffened in response. She’d thought he might touch her when she heard keys jangling. “Here. Go,” he said, placing the keys on the bed, next to her hip.

  Ignoring the keys momentarily, she scooted away from him, and angled her body so she could see his face. “You’re letting me go?”

  His rugged face was suntanned, and his eyes were like two black marbles. His dark brown hair still scraped his collar, his body was lean, muscular and hard. The only thing different about him was the tiny laugh wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. Although she couldn’t remember ever hearing him laugh until moments ago when she’d threatened to hunt him down and kill him if he raped her.

  “Don’t look so surprised. The big bad rapist is letting you go without so much as copping a feel.” His tone was mocking, insulting.

  “I think you copped plenty a feel.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not as much as I would have liked.”

  She felt her nostrils flare.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting a hand and propping himself up on his elbow. “I can’t seem to control my big mouth when I’m around you.”

  Either he was truly sorry, or he was doing a darn good job of acting.

  “Do you realize I haven’t had a relationship with anyone since I got out of prison? I mean, I don’t have trouble getting laid when I want. But most of the women around here won’t give me the time of day. And those who aren’t afraid of me think it’s a turn-on to date an ex-con. A rapist. They’re also the type who like it a little r
ough, which doesn’t exactly rock my boat, if you know what I mean.”

  “And that’s supposed to be my fault?”

  “You’re the one who sent me away for three years. Because of your false accusations, mothers herd their daughters in the opposite direction when they see me coming. As if I’m some kind of parasite. Do you know how hard it was for me to come back to this town? To start over? To make something of my life?”

  Was he asking for sympathy? Then again, if she’d made a mistake, if Griffin wasn’t the one . . . She shuddered with the thought that someone else could be responsible and was running around free. And if so, had he hurt anyone else besides her?

  Listen to yourself, she chided. You’re beginning to doubt your own mind. Of course Griffin is going to maintain his innocence. That doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty.

  She needed time to sort things out, to remember, and yet she didn’t want to remember. With tentative fingers, she reached for the keys and slid them closer to her, wrapping her fist tightly around them.

  His eyes darted toward her closed fist, then back to her face. “I should thank you, for one thing. If it hadn’t been for me spending time in prison, I may never have given a damn about anything. Because of my hatred for you over the years, I was more determined than ever to prove to you my innocence. I was also determined to show you I was good enough for you. Hollin, the spoiled little rich girl. And Griffin Wells, white trash, is how this town used to think of me.”

  She swallowed thickly, listening to him rant.

  “When I got out of prison, I worked three jobs just so I could buy the land this trailer sits on. Nate Whitaker trusted me to buy it on land contract. And then I started saving money until I could afford to buy more property and start my own construction company. Last summer I bought an old house across the lake from your family home. Once I finish the renovations, it’ll be worth twice what I paid for it. It doesn’t matter much that I won’t be able to pay off the bank until I’m ninety years old. People around here have now started to show me a little respect.”

  He released a lengthy breath and ran a hand through his hair. The cowlick he’d had as a teen still poked out at a weird angle from the top of his head. “I’m proud of who I’ve become.”

  “If that’s true then why do you keep this old, beat-up trailer?” she asked.

  He smiled crookedly. “Roots. You can’t forget your roots, Hollin. No matter how much people think they’ve changed over the years, you can’t hide who you really are. I keep this place as a reminder.”

  He was crazy. She needed to remember that. He’d also had her falling for his pitiful story until he’d thrown that last part in. Who in their right mind would want to come by this old rattle trap to read the newspaper?

  “You know,” he said, trailing a finger across the back of her hand, the one holding the keys. “You never did tell me what it is you’re doing here.”

  Hollin met his gaze and froze.

  #

  Griffin pulled his hand away. When was he going to learn to keep his hands off her? Her demeanor changed instantly, the moment he’d touched her. Her chest rose and fell beneath her tan trench coat. And she looked at him with wary eyes.

  She bit at her lip, then swallowed. “If I’m going to live in this town again, I need to face my past.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he cocked his head to study her more closely. He had no idea if she was being straight with him, and that irked him. He used to be able to read her so well.

  “This is where I met you,” Hollin continued, her voice shaky and uncertain. “So I thought I should start here.”

  Griffin felt empty inside. Facing her past obviously meant facing her attacker. And since she believed the attacker to be him . . . He flopped onto his back again and stared up at the ceiling. “This is my property, and you’re not welcome here. No one is.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  He angled his head to look at her. Was she serious? She’d apologized for stepping foot in the dump where he’d grown up, like it had some kind of sentimental value to him. He almost laughed.

  He watched as she slid off the bed, brushed her hand over her trench coat, and tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’d like to leave now.”

  Was she asking permission? Continuing to stare up at her, he lifted a shoulder from the mattress in a careless shrug. “No one is stopping you.”

  Keeping her gaze on him, she backed out of the room and into the hall. Then she turned and ran.

  Griffin heard the wood steps creak and groan, her car roar to life, and the sound of her tires on the gravel drive as she peeled away. Once the sound of her car had faded into the distance, he rolled to the side of the bed and found her shoe on the floor.

  He picked it up, running a hand over the shiny material. The shoe was so like Hollin. Prim, proper, delicate. She was like a small flower that had been crushed. She was still hurting, still a scared little girl.

  It wasn’t fair. As a teen she’d been so full of confidence and life. Always smiling. And then some sick bastard had stripped her of everything. Although she looked the same on the outside, it was merely a shell. It was what was on the inside that counted, and he doubted there was anything left of the old Hollin inside. The Hollin who had once thought she was in love with him.

  No, there was nothing left now. Nothing except hatred and contempt for him.

  #

  At the top of the stairs, Hollin heard voices coming from Chelsea’s room and headed in that direction. She was surprised to see Rachel sitting on the small twin bed, reading to her daughter. It was the first time she’d witnessed her sister do anything that even hinted of motherhood. She was about to tip-toe away and allow them their special time together when Chelsea must have spotted her.

  “Aunt Hollin!” she squealed, and Hollin had no choice but to enter the bedroom.

  Chelsea was dressed in pink flannel pajamas. Pink was her favorite color, she’d insisted on more than one occasion. When she grew up she was going to live in a pink house, drive a pink car and only wear pink clothing, she’d told her aunt and anyone who would listen. The room had been decorated, with no expense spared, in pinks and greens, flowers and ruffles. A room that any girl would be happy to call her own.

  “Hi, sweetheart. You’re all ready for bed, I see.”

  “Mommy, I want Aunt Hollin to read to me.”

  Rachel looked up from the storybook in her hands and scowled at her sister.

  Hollin quickly intervened. “Chelsea, your mom has already started the story. Maybe I can read to you tomorrow night.”

  Her niece frowned, but nodded her assent. Hollin kissed her on the cheek. Chelsea smelled of shampoo and little girl. After saying goodnight, Hollin then retired to her room. She took a five-minute shower and climbed into bed, but left the lights on. So much was on her mind, she knew it would be a long time before sleep found her.

  Although she hadn’t told her family about going to the trailer that morning and her altercation with Griffin, she’d thought about nothing but that. All day her mind had played war with the idea that he could be innocent. For thirteen years, she’d hated him. Had believed it was him who had hurt her.

  She shivered, pulling the comforter up around her for warmth. Rachel chose that moment to walk in, without so much as a knock.

  “I don’t deserve her,” she said, shutting the door softly behind her. When Hollin only stared at her with a look of confusion, Rachel went on to explain. “Chelsea. I’m a terrible mother.”

  “If this is about her wanting me to read to her--”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Chelsea doesn’t get to see me very often.”

  “It’s not about that, Hollin,” Rachel said. She made her way across the room and flopped into the green velveteen chair. She flicked her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I neglect her.”

  Hollin wouldn’t argue with her there. She’d been in town for nearly ten days, and she�
��d yet to see Rachel get her daughter off to school. In fact, she usually didn’t get out of bed before noon.

  And most afternoons when Chelsea got off the school bus, her mother would be gone. A lot of those times she didn’t return until her daughter was sound asleep, usually in the wee hours of the morning.

  Hollin didn’t doubt Rachel loved her daughter, but she either didn’t know how, or care to be, a good mother. And it was unforgivable.

  “It’s not intentional. I go to sleep each night telling myself I’ll do better the next day, but it’s all a lie.”

  “Why, Rachel?” Hollin bent and curled her knees beside her hip. “Don’t you realize how harmful that can be to Chelsea?”

  “I don’t deserve her.” She ran both hands through her stringy hair, and Hollin wondered how long it had been since she’d shampooed it, or even run a brush through it. At least two days, if she remembered correctly. Rachel didn’t seem to care about her appearance at all.

  “What about Chelsea’s father?”

  “She has no father.”

  It was something Rachel had always said, but Hollin didn’t want to hear it anymore. “Someone had to have fathered her.”

  “Leave it alone, Hollin.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’m sure being a single parent is difficult. Maybe it would help to talk to a professional.”

  “A shrink?” Rachel dropped her hands to her jeans-clad thighs and gave a brittle laugh. “You were in therapy how many years? Did it help you any?”

  Okay, one for Rachel. “At the time, no. But lately I’ve been thinking about some of the things Dr. Baxter said. About facing my past, my fears. And I think maybe she was right.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not about to sit across from some man or woman, who thinks they know me better than I know myself, and tell them all my sins.” Her blue eyes turned cold. “It’s none of their damn business.” She jabbed a finger at her own chest. “I answer to me, no one else.”

  Hollin released a heavy sigh. She would never convince Rachel to speak to someone, and at the moment was too tired to try. Maybe now that Hollin had decided to stay in Whisper Lake, she and her sister would become close again. Maybe then she could help Rachel face her own fears. In the meantime, she needed her sister.