by Robin Lovett
“Listen,” I growl. Her eyes glaze with tears, so I’m not sure she even sees me. “Do you hear me?”
She closes her eyes and turns her head away. Her breath catches and stutters. If I hadn’t shouted at her to shut up, she’d be sobbing.
“If you promise not to scream, I’ll pull my hand away,” I say, unsure where the brush of compassion comes from.
She doesn’t open her eyes but nods. I take my hand away and move it back to her wrist to hold her in place. Her gaze returns to me and whimpering cries echo in her throat.
“It’s not true.” Her tears leave shiny trails to her ears.
“It doesn’t matter if you think it’s true.” Nothing will stop me from getting the justice Louisa deserves. “Your job is to give me what his shit lawyers robbed my sister of years ago.”
“W-w-what do you want?”
“I want your trust fund.” And revenge. On you.
Her eyes gawk. “That’s—”
“Fifteen million dollars. I know. I also know how big your father’s retirement pay is.”
“But that money is for the hospital.”
I grin, a malevolent grin, the delight of seeing my prediction of her reaction come true. “Which is why you’re going to give me what’s in your trust fund. Because if you don’t, I’ll tell the whole world—the hospital, the university—what a raping monster your father was. Then what would happen to his precious retirement pay and your mother’s hospital?”
Panic shakes her voice. “You have no proof. They won’t believe you.”
“I have plenty of proof. By the time I’m done, his name will be so dirty the university will sever ties, and the hospital will be forced to refuse his money.”
Confusion crisscrosses her face. “You wouldn’t.”
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Yes, I would.” Now, I get to mete out the worst of it. Or the best of it, in my opinion, the part that will allow me to torture her, to own her misery. The best revenge on the father.
“I can’t just give you the money from my trust,” she mutters. “It’s not a bank account I can withdraw from. There are conditions.”
“There’s one way your trust will allow you to give me the money.” I keep my mouth next to her ear, listening to her breathing quicken next to mine. I wait for what I’ve said to click, then she gasps like I knew she would.
She knows.
I lift my head. Her pulse flutters in her neck. I want to taste it, to feel her fear on my tongue, to seize her pain and own it with my mouth. I want to inflict on her all the torture that has lived in me ever since my sister died. To wreck her with more than mere words.
“No,” she moans. “You can’t make me.”
“You have no choice.” The tears have dried from her face, replaced by the fear that I crave so much.
“I can’t marry you,” she murmurs.
“You can and you will.”
Then I do something I never imagined doing. Something that was not part of my fantasy. At all.
* * *
His lips crush mine, and the horror of everything he said disappears.
My father. His sister. The money. The hospital. Marriage?
He’s reinforcing it all—with his mouth, willing me to believe it, forcing me to admit I have no control.
I moan a low primal sound into his mouth, and sink my teeth into his lip. The growl from his chest resonates like a challenge, and he sets loose his tongue in my mouth.
Shamelessly, I open wide for him and let him take me the way I’ve wanted since he first stared at me. It’s devastating, it’s disarming, and I can’t remember to breathe it’s so good.
And bad. So very, very bad.
Which is exactly why I never want him to stop.
The duel between our slashing mouths is fueled with hatred, pain, and some other more visceral thing that has to be lust—though it’s of a potency I don’t recognize.
His lips are lush against mine, his tongue like fire burning the tears from my throat.
His hands caging mine stoke my fear, higher, tighter, until I’m euphoric. He could do anything to me and I wouldn’t stop him. I arch under him until my nipples graze his chest through my shirt. I gasp and his lips wander from my mouth to my ear. His teeth sink into my lobe, making me hiss.
A ringing. A dinging sound.
“Damn it.” He jerks back from me like I’ve burned him.
I crawl across the floor to my purse and answer my phone. “Amisha,” I answer. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“Penny, you don’t sound fine.”
I realize I’m speaking too loudly, too quickly. I’m frantic, panicked, afraid—and so bitterly aroused that my brain is as swollen as the rest of me.
I force myself to speak slower, quieter. “It’s okay. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“No, you won’t,” the male voice behind me growls.
“I mean . . .”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“Bye!” I fake as much happy in my tone as I can and hang up.
I stare at my phone, terrified of looking up, of seeing his face. But I hear him breathing, I see his legs bent on the floor, from the corner of my eye.
“Don’t. Tell. Anyone.” His voice is hollow and distant.
“I won’t.” Like I want even Amisha hearing the things he blames my father for. Like I’d admit to anyone I’m being blackmailed into marriage for my trust fund.
My hair curtaining my face, I peek at him through the strands.
For once he isn’t looking at me, he’s staring at his hands. I tuck my hair behind my ear. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him when he isn’t looking at me. Strain threads his brow and mouth. The sharp chisel of his jaw is marred by the muscle grinding his teeth.
He stirs and it’s like a beast awakening from slumber. I instinctively cower, give him room, though I don’t know what I’m afraid of. There is nothing I’d want more than for him to kiss me again.
If it weren’t for the whole money/wedding thing.
He stands, but I stay folded on the floor, not wanting to confront him. His eyes—I still can’t say what color they are. I forgot to think of it when he was on me.
His voice rumbles like thunder from a passing storm. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He turns to leave.
“Wait.”
He pauses but doesn’t look at me.
There’s so much to ask him. I can’t see through all the questions in my head. I clear my throat and pick the first one. “What’s your name?”
“Logan.” Then, not slamming the door but slowly closing it behind him, he leaves.
Logan.
My mind caves in on itself. The things he said, the lies he told. He’s a terrible man. Manipulating me for my money. Forcing me to marry him so I’ll inherit my entire trust fund and give it to him.
I don’t know how he knows that. But I know I can’t give it to him.
I can’t marry him, no matter how hot he is, no matter how much my lips are still tender from his bruising kisses.
But his lies about my father . . .
Why would he make up such horrific things? The kind of man who would do something like that . . . he could’ve at least made it something believable. Something less traumatic and gruesome. He’s out to shock me is all.
But for a reason I don’t understand, his lies, what he said, a piece of it fits. Something about it resembles what I’ve needed to know. It would explain . . .
No. It explains nothing, because it’s all lies.
Knowing it doesn’t make it easier, though. I shrink into the corner, grab a pillow from the couch, and hug it to my chest.
The grief—it’s there. The pain—it’s here. Maybe if I focus on what lies Logan’s going to tell me tomorrow, I won’t have to feel it.
Chapter Five
The feel of her mouth still on my lips
, I race across the beach, my shoes sinking into the sand. I peel off my shirt, kick off my shoes, and drop my shorts.
I have to get away from her. She’s too much, too tempting.
It’s too dark to see the edge of the water, but I dive hands-first into the white foaming surf.
Cold.
So cold.
I knew it would be. But I didn’t know it would be like a thousand stabs of ice scraping across my skin and pummeling air from my lungs.
I’ve never been in the ocean before.
I surface gasping and coughing, feeling like I tried to drown myself. The waves crash around me and shove me back under the water, my feet too numb to stand.
Why?
Why did I kiss her? There are no words for the turmoil scalding my gut as fiercely as the freezing water swallows me.
I loathe the sight of her.
I kissed her.
And her mouth was . . . warm, beyond any warmth I imagined.
I crawl to the edge of the waves and flop back onto the wet sand, water still lapping at my toes. At least the sea salt washed away the taste of her from my tongue. Almost.
“Yo, you drowning or something?” a male voice calls from the campfire up the beach—one of the guys I’ve camped next to for the last ten days.
“F—” I cough again. “Fine.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He ignores me as much as I want to be ignored. I don’t need anyone.
I told her. She knows.
She didn’t believe me.
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
* * *
I spot the bruises on the woman’s arm a second before she covers them with the sheet.
She cradles the suckling baby closer to her chest, her voice pitched high, like she wants to distract me from what I saw. “You think she’ll get enough to eat?”
I force my gaze to hers. “Yes. Switch her to your other breast in another few minutes.” I look more closely at the woman’s neck and see finger-sized yellow dots. I didn’t realize what they were until now: fading bruises.
I’m a nurse. I can help her, but only if she wants to be helped. I put my back to her husband, shielding her face from his view. “Is there anything you’d like to talk to me about privately, Mrs. Toolen?”
She strokes her baby’s arm. “We’ll be okay.”
“My wife and son are going home today, right?” The man’s voice from the corner gives me chills. He seems like a nice enough man, soft brown hair with a cowlick in the middle, his hands hanging loosely in his lap. There’s no animosity from him, no anxiety, nothing pushy or angry—he sets off no alarm bells.
But I can’t help looking at his hands and wondering if his fingerprints match the bruises on his wife’s skin.
His brows knit and he amends, “But I don’t want them to go home early if they’re not ready.” Such a nice man. He would never hurt his wife.
That man I let into my house last night—he’s made me crazy.
“Yes, Mr. Toolen. I expect the doctor will release them today.”
He stands and walks with me to the door. “Thank you for your help. She was nervous about this part.”
“It’s normal. I’m happy to help.”
He shakes my hand, and I walk into the hallway.
He raped her.
More than once.
I nearly scream. I can’t stop myself from putting my hands over my ears, squinting my eyes closed and wishing the clenching fingers in my hair could scrape the words from my brain.
“Penny?” The word is muffled by my covered ears. I have to look up before I know it’s Amisha. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She gives me her “bullshit” stare and leads me down a few doors to a break room. “You’re white as a ghost.” She urges me into a chair and I sit. “Tell me about last night.”
She squats in front of me, looking up at me like a mom.
I deflect. “You’re supposed to be in NICU.”
“I came to see you, and good thing I did. Are you having a panic attack?”
“No. I just—uh—have a migraine.” I’m a terrible liar. I don’t get migraines.
She knows this but doesn’t call me on it. “How was your date?” I can’t miss the trace of hope in her voice.
“I—he—” Can I tell her? Anything? He said not to tell anyone. But I want to tell her something. I can’t be completely alone in this. I need my friends.
Her pager, an archaic device the hospital insists on using, beeps, and she checks it. “Shit. I have to go.”
The tightness in my chest eases a little. I won’t have to make up lies. But I can’t get any support from her either.
She bites her lip and sighs. “We’re having dinner. Tonight. You, me, and Layla.”
“Layla?” I swallow. Oh God. Layla’s impossible to hold a secret around.
“Yes.”
“I can’t tonight. We’re going out again.”
Her beeper goes off again. “I’m calling you later. I have to go. Take something for your headache?” she says with all the kindness of the great doctor she’ll be someday.
“I will.”
She leaves, and I’m left with shaking fingers and a throat still clogged with the urge to scream. I want to tell her. To tell someone. To scream at the world it isn’t true. Those sickening things Logan said didn’t happen. But if I say it out loud, that makes it more true than keeping it to myself. If I don’t tell anyone, then it’s almost like it doesn’t exist. I can pretend it’s an illusion and there was no man in my condo last night.
I fumble through work. Trying to speak to as few people as possible—succeeding. Trying to think as few thoughts as possible—failing.
I go straight home. I ignore calls from Amisha. I start to type the code in my front door, except . . . it’s unlocked.
I push the door open.
He’s sitting there.
Legs spread wide, arms draped over the table behind him. I shouldn’t be surprised he broke into my house; I gave him the codes last night. It doesn’t stop my heart from accelerating.
The look in his eyes . . . the hatred, the revulsion. If this were a movie, he’d be the villain lying in wait for me, and I’d be calculating my escape to call the police. Except I’m not. I go inside.
I knew he hated me, but I didn’t know how much. Unless he’s grown to hate me more since last night.
Possible.
His eyes—how can they be so light and yet so dark? I can’t tell the color. They could be hazel, they could be green, they could be gray.
There’s nothing between us. Nothing to stop me from getting closer to him.
He is the flame, and I want to be singed, burned, ignited. I’m not sure if it’s despite the bad things he’s said, or because of them.
Maybe I hope even his lies will bring me closer to the truth.
Maybe I hope that in his flames, I’ll be more alive.
I’m almost near enough to tell the color of his eyes before he stands, and then he’s too tall for me to decipher his irises.
He inhales a brisk breath like he’s about to speak, but a voice behind me stops him.
“Who’s he?”
I turn and Blake stands in my open front door, as visibly urbane as Logan is wild. But I’m not fooled by the mirror-shined shoes or the tailored suits my older brother has adopted since finishing law school. Where I am blond and blue-eyed, he is dark. As though every dominant gene my parents possessed was spent on him, leaving only recessive genes for me.
He bristles, his territorial instincts responding to the sight of the man behind me. He slams the door closed, and his strides into the great room are long and quick, his larger-than-life presence bolstered by his annoyingly unstoppable urge to protect me like I’m a child.
But a piece of me is relieved—a small piece. Blake will get rid of Logan the same way he’s solved every other problem life has presented me. The way I’ve hated him for. I want
to be happy he’s here. But I’m not. No matter how foreboding Logan is, his silent threats won’t withstand my brother’s authority.
But Logan moves in front of me, blocking my brother’s path.
“Who do you think you are? That’s my sister,” Blake says.
Logan, in his aura of fury, thrusts out his hand for my brother to shake. “Logan Kane. Penny’s boyfriend.”
Chapter Six
Blake Vandershall stares at my hand like it’s coated in tar and caged with barbed wire. I smile, forcing back the urge to gloat. This man and his preppy clothes is halfway what I expected. I knew he’d be a frat boy and the same height as me. I didn’t know he’d possess a grit and snarl in defense of his sister.
I thought he’d be more like his father—believing women exist purely to be used. Or perhaps he is like the man, and he’s as good at hiding it as Malcolm was.
“Boyfriend?” He finally grasps my hand, and his shake is a brutal squeeze that I return. “Is he for real?”
We turn in unison to Penny, who’s standing slack-jawed. She glances at me and I give her a glare her brother can’t see.
Don’t deny it. You have no choice.
She has to mask her surprise, or Blake will never believe her.
I tilt my head, silently saying, Or do you want me to tell him too?
She fakes a smile for him. “I—yeah. Didn’t I tell you I was seeing someone?” She averts her eyes.
Not good enough. “Penny’s been shy about introducing me to people.” I put as much softness into my tone as I can and pluck up the most familiar, intimate thing I can think of. “The mourning period has been hard for her.”
Their reactions couldn’t be more opposite. She gasps, hides her face behind her hair and turns to the ocean view.
Blake’s lip curls and his stare intensifies, not on me but on Penny. “The best thing for you is to get over it. Not wallow in it.”
“Maybe for you.”
“For you too.”
She spins to face him, her eyes reddened. “Why are you here? If it’s to criticize me for being upset again, leave.”
“I’m not here to—”
“Then why are you here?”