“Hey, wait.” I try to push him off, but that just makes his grip tighter. “Damon, stop.”
Now he’s biting my neck, not listening. Not stopping. Fussing with my tucked in shirt, trying to lift it over my head. I push it back down with my free hand. He’s got the other pinned above my head.
“That hurts,” I say. “Damon, stop.”
I think quickly about what Kenny taught me. Palm of my hand up. Break his nose.
Before I can act, my tiny wrists are gripped into one of his strong hands above my head. I sink further into the couch, making it hard to try to get control of the situation. I scream stop again.
He works his zipper. “You wanted to come here tonight. You started it.”
I’m struggling beneath him, tears falling. My muffled sounds beg for help, but there is no help. There’s nothing. There’s just him, pushing his pants down and trying to get mine off. I’m kicking every step of the way. I try to knee him in the groin, but the way I’m pinned makes it impossible. His face is on my breasts, my shirt and bra now up around my neck, and he’s vulnerable for one second and I make my move. My right knee goes up as best as I can lift it, and he wails.
He stops.
Then he hits me. Closed fist. Opposite side of the lump I already have, so it’s a matching set. I shut my eyes and I try to scream bloody murder, but I can’t. My vocal cords are constricted under his fingers, his thumbs pressing into the soft spot. How does a man know exactly where to shut you up, every time? I’m about to black out when suddenly, he’s off me. Thrown across the room and into a wall.
“What the fuck are you doing to her, Damon?” a man screams.
My face is wet from my tears, I’m coughing, I’m sure my throbbing eye is turning purple, I think my wrist is fractured, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on in the chaos. The front door is wide open, and a man is in the apartment, landing blow after blow on Damon.
“You sick fuck!” mystery man screams. Another punch lands. “Leave her alone!”
When Damon is finally subdued, he wipes the blood from his mouth and looks at the guy. “What the fuck business is this of yours?”
The guy looks my way, then back at Damon. “Yeah, I can tell she’s totally into it. Girls don’t cry and scream during sex. You don’t hit women who say no—you stop.” He looks at me again but doesn’t come close. He stays near Damon, his arm out toward him in case he tries to get up and attack. “Are you okay?” he asks me.
I’m holding my eye and wiping my tears, trying to pull my bra and shirt back down. “No, I’m not okay. Who are you?”
The man looks at Damon. “His roommate. Call the cops.”
“No.” I can’t call the cops. I can’t explain who I am. Where I’m coming from. “No, it’s fine. Just get him away from me.”
Damon is still on the floor against the wall, knowing better than to jump up and continue the fight. “Fuck you, man,” he says to the guy. Then he stands and pulls his pants up, grabs his shirt and yanks it over his head. “Don’t be here when I get back. I want you out of here.” Without a care in the world, Damon walks out the open door and slams it behind him.
The guy looks at me and puts both of his hands up defensively as he slowly walks toward me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” I say, then click my jaw. The pain sears into the back of my neck. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t walk in just now.”
His expression is solemn, caring. “Can I look at your eye?” he asks.
I nod, and he comes closer, slowly, cautiously, still with his hands up. Then, a gentle hand touches my shoulder and another points my head toward the light in the kitchen. “This is going to leave a mark. And you’re bleeding. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”
“No.” No insurance, fake Social on my ID, don’t want to be found. No.
There’s something in his eyes. Something special. Something gentle and loving. I’ve never seen it before. Also, they’re the same exact color as mine. Gray. Unique.
“Hang on, I’m going to get some ice.”
He stands and goes to the freezer, takes out a few ice cubes, and puts them on a clean rag he takes out of a kitchen drawer. They clink against each other as they roll into the rag and he approaches me again, slowly, gesturing toward my face.
“Is this okay?” he asks. I nod, and he swipes my hair away and winces when he sees the damage. “Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry.”
I hold the ice rag against my head. “Why? You didn’t do it.”
“Hang on. I’m going to get the first aid kit.”
He runs to the bathroom and I hear drawers and cabinets being opened and closed, and he comes out with a kit overflowing with bandages and ointments. I sniffle, but I don’t want to wipe my nose on my arm because that’s gross, and I’m trying not to be completely pathetic in front of my knight in shining armor. He stops and grabs a box of tissues off the kitchen counter and sets them down beside me, then sits cross-legged in front of me.
“Is it okay if I touch you again?” he asks, nodding toward my cut head and my purple eye and neck.
“Mmm hmm,” is all I can muster as I grab a tissue to delicately wipe the snot away.
I think he must be a doctor, or at least in the medical field, the way he gingerly takes care of me. In silence, he disinfects the cut and uses two butterfly bandages to close it and then applies a waxy ointment on top.
“I can put a gauze pad over it if you want,” he says, then holds the ice over my eye again.
“No. I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Fucking Damon. I’m so sorry he did this to you. What’s your name?”
“Tessa. Tessa Smyth. I met him yesterday at the bar.”
He shakes his head back and forth. “That’s where he finds them all.” Then he takes a deep breath and introduces himself. “Nice to meet you Tessa. I’m James Montgomery.”
14
James
Driving back from the police station, all James thought about was Tessa. He’d tried to fill in the holes in her past, who her ex that she was running from was, but part of him didn’t want to—the poor girl had been through some real shit. Hell, when he met her, she was being beaten and almost raped by his former roommate.
It was fate. From day one. How could he know her for barely four months, and her sudden absence left such a huge hole in his heart?
Unfortunately, he’d heard about Damon, after he’d moved in with him—it was why he mostly stayed at Joanna’s place, even though she lived so far away from work. He didn’t want to be associated with the guy that didn’t take no for an answer. It was the worst-kept secret around town. Supposedly, he’d abused his ex-wife, and that’s why Damon was divorced. A good-looking, mysterious, troublemaking bartender, he was an entitled prick and assumed he deserved women to be at his beck and call. He didn’t like it when they weren’t. James had never witnessed it until he saw Tessa on the ground, being choked, bleeding, and Damon trying to forcibly get her pants off.
The image still made the bile rise from his stomach to his throat. That was his wife.
James remembered the way Tessa looked at him when he took care of her that night. She was a wounded bird, and so grateful that he wasn’t there to take advantage of her, like every man in her life before him had supposedly done. He knew nothing of her checkered past at that point, and he may have fallen in love with her right then and there. Her doe eyes, even though one was swollen and the other looked to be healing. Her beautiful lips, even though one was bleeding. Her long neck, even though there were purple and blue rings forming around it.
Now, all he thought about was getting her back.
There could be a million reasons why she’d disappeared, since she’d had so many abusive exes, including one that she was running from the night they met. But James only thought of one real problem: Damon Moretti. But he couldn’t tell the cops that yet.
With James’s current bad luck, now that th
e news about Tessa was out, now that his name was out, he wouldn’t be surprised if Damon himself went to the cops. To scream about James pulling a gun on him last Thursday night, the night Tessa went missing.
Tessa hated guns—she’d had her share of guns pointed in her direction. When she opened up about her nameless last husband—Asshole—she’d said that he pulled guns on her all the time. And someone she knew from back home mentioned to her that the ex was still looking for her. So James got a gun for protection. When he let Tessa know and showed it to her, wanting to teach her how to use it in case she had to in a pinch, she shrieked her disapproval and told him to stop pointing it at her—like he’d ever do such a thing. He assured her he was doing it for her own protection. Then he promised her he’d get rid of it.
He sort of did. At least, he got it out of the house, like she’d asked. He kept it in the locked glove compartment of his car, until he could figure out a better place to hide it—he wouldn’t be without it—not if Damon or the other nameless Asshole came looking for her. And the night she’d disappeared, he had left a note on the table before he left for work that morning, one which he immediately burned when he discovered she was missing.
Tessa—I got rid of the gun. I never want you to feel unsafe. I’ll be home as soon as I can tonight. I love you. James
He couldn’t let the cops scouring his place know he’d had a gun in his possession, because it was illegal. He didn’t want to bolster their belief that he was a suspect. He hadn’t done anything to Tessa. He’d give his right arm to know she was safe.
Still, rage took over when he saw Damon at Jupiter’s while he was out with Rosita and the two guys from VistaBuild, Andy and Kyle, last Thursday. As usual, Damon was hassling a girl. He didn’t see James—in fact James had only seen Damon once since the night that he beat Tessa, and that was a few days later, when James was moving out. Tessa was staying at a hotel nearby, and James stayed with her until they got married, two weeks later.
Quick.
Fate.
Love.
Damon had followed the girl out of Jupiter’s that night. She was alone, a would-be victim. James wouldn’t let Damon fall into his old antics, so he excused himself from his current company. Grabbed the pistol from his glove compartment and when he found Damon pinning the crying girl to the back of a building, he put the fear of God into him.
The gun wasn’t loaded—James wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t about to kill a man. Even an attempted rapist piece of shit like Damon. But seeing his face in the bar brought back the memories of his hands around the throat of the woman he loved, and he lost it.
In the back of the building, over the woman’s cries, even Damon was able to hear the click of the trigger being pulled back—a warning. Felt the pressure of the cold steel barrel against his head. Heard the threats that poured out of James’s mouth.
Damon literally pissed himself while the woman ran away. For an added threat, James cracked Damon over the head with the gun. Left a mark, made him bleed, as Damon had done to many other girls. A huge mistake, considering it was Damon’s blood that Andy noticed on his shirt when he went back into the bar. But worth it as Damon looked up at him with wide, glassy, frightened eyes, and James added, “Don’t let me see you again, motherfucker,” and backed away, still pointing the pistol at his head.
He hoped it would be a while before Damon tried to harass another woman.
When Rosita called him out on disappearing from the bar for a little while, James made up the story about having to move his car. If Rosita told that to the cops, surely, they’d be able to check street cameras and see where his car was all night. He hoped she kept her mouth shut.
He didn’t mean to lie. He wasn’t some county vigilante, but fuck Damon Moretti.
Tessa disappeared around that time. According to the forensics team, it had to do with the freshness of her blood in the kitchen.
Did Damon seek revenge? He knew James and Tessa were married. Did he look up their address, knowing that James was out in town without Tessa, and that she’d be home, alone, vulnerable? Did he sneak to the back, bust open a kitchen window, and drag poor, unwilling Tessa across the floor, punching her, causing her to bleed all over their floor?
Was Tessa’s disappearance James’s fault?
15
Tessa
This man, this James Montgomery, is complete and utter perfection.
I’m all cleaned up and safe. James offers to drive me home, but I want to call Hobart—he’s the only person I trust. But the way James looks at me, with his dark hair, his five o’clock shadow, his loosened tie on his button-down shirt—I fall under a spell. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not the same. I don’t fall because he’s dangerous and mysterious and bad.
It’s because I think he’s good.
This is something that’s never happened to me before.
Sure, I’ve tried to see the good in people that I knew were going to fuck with me—truck drivers and construction workers and “professional video game players”—but there’s something inherently perfect about this man. He’s hot, but he’s also gentle and doesn’t come at me with lines and smarmy bullshit. Genuine.
“Come on, Tessa. Let me drive you home. I promise you can trust me. I’m not like him,” James says. “I’m not.”
His pleading eyes are sincere. And he hasn’t tried to touch me since he wrapped me in a blanket as I sat on the couch to recover. He even made me tea. He didn’t talk to me while I drank the tea, not because it was awkward, but because it wasn’t.
I finish the last of the Earl Grey, not my favorite but the only kind that was in the cupboard, and place the mug on the glass table in front of me with a soft clank. Then I look up at his caring face, while mine is stricken with panic. What will he do if I leave a ring on the table?
“I’m sorry. Do you have a coaster?” I ask, my first words to him since he fixed me.
Rings on the tabletop have never been a plus in my past situations. I’d be reminded of the coaster by having it smacked into my face.
“Don’t worry about it. This place obviously isn’t fancy.” He smiles at me, and it’s real. “Hey, I don’t feel right putting you in an Uber after—after everything tonight. I promise you can trust me,” he says again, which in my situation has always been famous last words.
But I do trust him.
“What are you going to do about him?” I ask.
He lets out a long sigh. “I’d like to go to the police, but I’ll respect your wishes if you don’t want me to. I guess I’ll pack up some stuff tonight and stay in a hotel. I have to get out of here. I swear if I see his fu”—he stops, looking at me and wanting to be a gentleman—“his damn face, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
I press my lips together, still tasting blood from the split one, and nod.
“Do you live around here?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’m new in town. Just got here a few days ago. I’m staying at that big hotel off Main.”
“Where were you before?”
I shake my head softly. I can’t tell him. I don’t even know him. “Around. Needed a change of scenery.”
“I see.” He nods. “Well, I’m going to pack a few things, and then I’m taking you back to the hotel. Looks like I’ll be staying there a while too.” His hands go up again, quickly. “I’m not stalking you. I just have to figure out where to sleep for the next few days.”
My thoughts go back to the girl who was here earlier tonight. “Don’t you have a girlfriend you can stay with?”
“Nope. We broke up tonight. That’s why I came home early. Thank God,” he says, nodding toward the floor where I was attacked.
“Oh. She was here when Damon and I first got here. She was in the kitchen; said she was leaving you a note. I think it’s still on the counter.”
“She was?” his eyebrows knit together, and he rises from the old wingback chair and goes to the breakfast bar. He finds the note, reads it, and balls it up and throws it i
n the garbage. Runs his hand through his thick, wavy hair and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, that’s that.”
“Do you have any family you can stay with?” I ask.
A shadow casts over his face. “No. My parents retired to Florida. And Tommy—my brother—he’s been dead for fifteen years.”
I open my mouth simply to remove my foot. “I’m sorry.” Change the subject. “Why did you and your girlfriend break up?” Sure, good move, T. Make him talk about one depressing thing after another. Rude of me to use him to get my mind off my current situation.
He laughs and looks at me. “Aren’t relationships always complicated?” He shrugs, smirks. “Things happen for a reason, I guess.”
I nod, thinking that if they didn’t break up, I’d be raped and possibly dead right now.
“Well,” he continues, “like I said. I’m going to pack some stuff. I really hope you let me take you back there.”
I could almost hear him saying once again I could trust him… or maybe that’s what I wanted to hear in that moment. That would be the third time, and you know what they say: Third time’s the charm.
“Okay. Thank you,” I say softly.
I sit quietly as I hear him shuffle around in his bedroom and the bathroom. Hangers scratching against poles, drawers opening and closing, things shaking around in the bathroom. A zipper closes with a squeak—a long one, must be a suitcase—and then another shorter one, perhaps a duffel bag. The wheels to the case thud against the floor as they roll into the living room. James pulls the handle to the navy-blue bag, and he has a matching navy-blue duffel over his shoulder, worn crossbody, and is also holding a garment bag. Called both right.
“This should get me through the week.” He grabs his keys. “You ready?”
I stand and follow as he opens the door and moves through.
He turns back to me. “Let me stay in front of you. Just in case. I don’t want that jerk-off hiding behind any corners and trying to surprise us.”
His Missing Wife Page 10