The Redemption of Nixon Thorne

by T Steele

  Nixon nods, looking thoughtful. “She could stay with us at my apartment.”

  I widen my eyes. “I don’t know if she’d be up for that…” I trail off. “But I guess I won’t know until I ask her.”

  Chapter 16

  Nixon

  Ella is coming home with me, and I’m flipping the fuck out.

  After we talked Waverly into staying with Jake, which actually wasn’t hard at all considering the threat of staying in her own room, Ella had officially agreed to stay at my place for a while. We’d offered my apartment to Waverly as well, but she had declined, saying she “didn’t want to be traumatized by the things she would hear through the walls”. The reaction on Ella’s face after that comment had made Waverly clear her throat, and politely accept the invite to Jake’s. Although, she had taken up that offer suspiciously fast and had walked into his dorm with bright red cheeks. It made me wonder exactly what had happened after that party a few nights ago.

  Ella and Waverly talk quietly now in the tiny kitchenette of Jake's dorm, and I give them privacy.

  “So, this speaker has a thing for Ella, huh?” Jake asks, looking serious for once.

  “Yeah…” I trail off, wondering how much to tell him. I’ve told him the gist of the story without mentioning what happened years ago, but I can tell he’s not buying everything I’m selling. And I can’t really say I blame him. He doesn’t have all the information, but he’s not going to get it, either. “Just watch yourself and Waverly around him. He’s a sneaky bastard,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

  “Can’t you guys go to the police?” he asks.

  I clench my jaw. “Already have.”

  Jake shakes his head. “Well, alright, then. Let me know if and when you have any more news.”

  After Ella and Waverly hug and say their goodbyes, I stand from the couch Jake and I are sitting on, and we walk out the door together.

  “I told Waverly that this wouldn’t be too long. That I’ll probably only be staying with you for a little while,” Ella says softly.

  Not if I can help it, the thought comes so quickly that I must frown, because Ella asks, “Is everything alright?”

  “It will be once we find out a way to get him behind bars.”

  We haven’t said his name aloud yet. Maybe it's some childhood fear that if we say it, he'll appear, or that we just don't want to say his filthy name aloud and put it out into the universe.

  But then my brain goes back to the fact that an actual classy woman is practically moving into my apartment and I start to panic a little. That fact has the jackass commitment-phobe in me wanting to deny my excitement, but my inner alpha wants to roar in triumph. But this isn’t a good thing—her moving in under these circumstances—so it makes me feel guilty. Guilt was something I so commonly felt that you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. It only got worse and worse. Festering inside me like a parasite. Like a fucking tapeworm eating at my insides.

  How is this going to fucking work? Living with Ella Black—my walking, talking wet dream, but also the girl who’s been through some tough shit. The girl I want to do unspeakable things to, yet after what happened earlier, just that thought alone causes shame to take over. Her safety has to be my top priority. I protect the people that I care about—something my father never did. If he desired someone, then he found a way to have them in whatever way he wanted. If he got you, you better hope like hell he didn’t keep you like he did with Mom and I. I find hope in knowing that I actually am different than him. Ella can, and will, feel safe with me, I promise myself. And I’ll never let the desire that I feel for her override that.

  Given the way I grew up, I don’t want to see any women harmed, but with Ella, it was so much more than that. As sick as it sounds, it felt nice being needed. And fuck me if I didn’t need her, too. I don’t know why I ever tried pushing her away. I know she’s way too fucking good for me, but dammit didn’t the peasant sometimes deserve just one night with the princess? Or at least a moment of her time?

  We walk together, and I grab onto her hand. Now that there’s a threat in the air, I’m not taking any chances. The feel of her hand in mine grounds me to the point that I don’t feel as awful about our horrible pasts and reassures me that we will get through this. Someway, somehow, we will keep trying until we do.

  We reach the parking lot, heading for my truck. I open the door for Ella, still looking around like I’m her fucking bodyguard, which is a role I’m willing to fill. If it calls for being paranoid, then so be it. Ella goes to get into the truck and gasps, stopping dead in her tracks. I’m stepping in front of her protectively, head swiveling around, looking for any sign of a threat, but then I see it. There’s a piece of paper sitting on the passenger seat.

  “What the fuck?” I swear under my breath.

  Ella picks it up with a trembling hand. She sucks in a harsh breath before handing it to me. I take it, scanning her face for a moment, and then read:

  Sweet Ella Black,

  I was sorely disappointed that I didn’t see you in class today. What am I going to do with you? Have you turned rebellious as you’ve grown? You used to be such an obedient little thing. I think of you every day. I’d like to believe I left a lasting impression on you and remain hopeful that you think of me too!

  P.S. I would hate to do this, but if you and that despicable boy go to the police again, I will expose the lovely pictures I took of you so long ago, as well as the ones of his extracurricular activities.

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  Sincerely,

  A Friend

  I want to kill this motherfucker so badly. To take my anger out on something. To take a bat to a car window, anything to get rid of this pent up rage inside, but when I see Ella’s face—it fades to the background.

  Ella stares down at her hands, sitting completely still. She looks so small—fragile and breakable—and I don’t know how to be what she needs at this moment. But I’m gonna be there for her no matter what. Whatever it takes.

  I shut her door as gently as possible, and jog to the driver’s side. When I get in, I start the ignition and drive. Wondering how to make things better for her.

  “That’s always been my worst fear,” she whispers so quietly that I’m surprised I heard her. “I always wondered if and when the pictures would show up. It always felt like a death sentence.”

  “I’ve wondered, too,” I admit just as quiet. “I remember when I was locked up, I never knew what had happened. If he had quit his job, if he’d shown the pictures, if it continued to happen while I was gone…” I trail off.

  Ella shudders beside me, and I don’t have any more words. I know there’s nothing I can do or say to make it better, but dammit if I won’t try.

  I reach out, placing my hand on her thigh, rubbing soothing circles there. “You’re not alone,” I tell her. “I won’t let you go through this by yourself.”

  We stay silent for the rest of the ride, and when we pull up to my apartment, I hurriedly get out of the car and run to the other side to open the door for her. I know I’m walking on eggshells around her, but I can’t seem to help it. I don’t think she’s quite forgiven me for the lies I’ve told her, and I don’t know if I blame her. She’s also the first girl I’ve brought to my apartment to stay. I’m not proud of it, but most girls that come here leave early the next morning doing the walk of shame.

  This is all new for me, and I have to stop myself from staring at her for too long as she gets out of the truck, and we walk up the stairs together. Even after crying and probably feeling like death, she still looks beautiful like some mystical, fairytale princess. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with only a few strands hanging in her face. The baggy crop top she wears hangs off her shoulder, and her high waisted leggings hug her hips and ass. Even though it’s casual clothes, none of that can hide the fact that she is soft in all the places that I am hard.

  I give myself a mental facepalm. Stop it, you horny ass mot
herfucker!

  I can’t help it, though. She was impossible not to notice. It’s not like I was going to act on it…unless, of course, she asked. But would that be right?

  Like you could deny her, my conscience pipes up.

  Yes. I would deny her if I felt like it would hurt her.

  My plain white door with the number six on it comes into view, and I pull out my keys and unlock it. We walk inside, and I turn to her. “It’s not much, but it works for now,” I say, suddenly feeling even more anxious. I’m sure she grew up in a nice house filled with dinners at the dining room table, family pictures, and loving parents. Makes me wonder if I should’ve just bit the bullet and used my fighting money for a nicer apartment or house, but then she grins. She’s exhausted, but she’s still trying to show her gratitude.

  “It’s perfect. I’d love to have my own place. I love Waverly, but dorm life can be too much sometimes.”

  I nod and then jerk to attention. “Let me take your suitcase.” I grab it from her and put it inside my bedroom.

  I come back to see her still standing there awkwardly. “You can sit down, make yourself at home. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  “No thanks,” she says quietly.

  Her eyes move around the room. The plain white walls and minimal personal items; the couch, coffee table, and small kitchenette. I wonder what she’s thinking. Ella is both hard and easy to read. Her eyes are big and curious, inquisitive. They say that she’s intelligent, and if you look hard enough, you can even see the darkness in there. But her body language is the opposite. She moves carefully, every step precise as if she has to be cautious. As if she’s used to falling with no one to pick her up.

  Then, her eyes widen, and she stalks forward to the one and only photo I have displayed. It’s a picture of my mom and me.

  She picks it up, staring at it. It’s one of those pictures you can take with family members while you’re locked up. The background is just a blue sheet, and my mom stands beside me, looking so tiny it’s as if she was my little sister and not my mother. I wore a blue jumpsuit, but I hadn’t been in prison for long at that point. I know without a doubt by the way Ella studies the picture, she remembers who I am and what I used to look like.

  Chapter 17

  Ella

  I remember him now, my mind replaying the exact scene. My heart beats thunderously in my chest now that the last puzzle peice has come together.

  He’s the boy from the lunch line that day, the boy I had taken pity on by giving him a dollar. It had been obvious he’d been in a fight. He’d had that bad boy aura, with a slightly bruised eye and bloodied knuckles, but all I saw was someone who needed help. Even with his battered appearance, I’d still found him nice to look at. He didn’t give off the impression that he was just some punk looking for a fight. No, he seemed desperate.

  How odd was it that we’d both helped each other earlier in life, and then found one another again? Could that be why I’ve felt so drawn to Nixon since the first moment I saw him? I think of everything Nixon’s told me about his past tonight, and I wonder how he turned out to be so honorable. He had every reason to hate the world and become just like his father, but he didn’t. That’s a type of strength I’ve never seen before, and I’m not talking about physical brute strength. I stare up at him, and he stares back, reminding me of a caged animal. Like he doesn't know whether to fight or run—as if I would judge him now, knowing everything that I do.

  And I want to know more. I want him to tell me things. To lean on me, confessing his deepest, darkest secrets. I want him to feel safe with me. To ask him how it was for him growing up and what he’d gone through. What I’d gone through was pretty terrible, but at least I’d had loving parents. The thing that stuns me the most is that he barely knew me, and even with the tough situation he was already in, he tried to do the right thing. I bet it was tough for him, seeing me again, but he still looks out for me. Even if he was kind of an asshole at first.

  We’re both hurting, both needing comfort. Both tormented souls, tortured by our good intentions.

  “I remember that day in the lunch line,” I say, tracing a finger over Nixon’s young face in the photo before placing it back on the shelf.

  He stares at me, uncertainty in his eyes, absorbing every detail as he watches my every move

  I walk up to him, so close I can almost feel his body heat. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you tell me that it was you that day?” I ask, looking him up and down, barely seeing any trace of the young boy from back then. Only seeing the man Nixon is now.

  “It didn’t seem important,” he murmurs, tucking a piece of stray hair behind my ear.

  “It is, and you know it. Why didn’t you tell me everything? Were you ever planning on telling me if he hadn’t shown up?” I keep my voice strong, even though I’m dying inside. But a small part of me knows that he meant well. At least, that’s what my heart is trying to tell me.

  “How would I have even brought it up?” he asks, and I can tell some of that old anger is rising up again. But if I’m going to stay here with him, we have to talk about it, even if I don’t want to, either. Talking is the last thing I want to do. Communication has never been a strong suit for me, but it’s time to woman up and let the words flow. I’ve never been confrontational, though, so it’s hard for me to put my foot down.

  “Instead of acting like an asshole, you could've just straight up told me in the beginning.”

  His lips quirk. “And where would the fun have been in that?” Then his eyes harden. “I was planning to tell you, I was just trying to think of the best time. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “But you did,” I whisper, looking away from him. “You’ve seen the pictures.”

  A pained expression falls on his face, and he clenches his jaw, looking downcast. “Yes,” he whispers roughly. “But it’s not like I was trying to peek or anything. It’s not like I liked it. I was furious. You didn’t deserve that, and I still wish I could’ve killed him.”

  “Don’t lie. Were you going to tell me the truth at some point?”

  “Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “I’d even vowed to myself that I wouldn’t touch you again until you knew the truth. That is…if you still wanted me after you knew.” His voice is lower now, and I feel my cheeks heat at the same time a light bulb goes off in my head. So that’s the reason he wouldn’t touch me.

  “So, you did want to touch me?” I ask, slightly mortified at being so forward, but the insecure girl inside of me needs clarification. Needs to know that it was an honorable thing, not because he saw me as weak and damaged or unattractive. “That’s why you pulled away from me after the fight the other night?”

  He barks out a laugh, swiping a hand down his face. “Ella, I’m fucking weak for you. My whole life, I haven’t cared about anything or anyone, except for my mom. It’s always been that way, but as soon as I saw you again, I wanted you. Yeah, it might’ve been mostly lust at first, but now I can’t stay away.”

  It doesn't make the lying any better, but I can’t help the relief that fills me, knowing he wants me. There’s something about Nixon. Of course he’s attractive. Anyone within a five-mile radius can see that, but there’s an underlying sweetness and soft side there, too. I don’t know many men who would have been able to endure all the things he’s been through, and still have such honor in his heart. Especially with such a cruel father as an example. Nixon’s become an honest and admirable man all on his own, without anyone's help at all. He deserves so much better than what he’d been dealt with. I think back to all those years ago when I’d found out that Tackett was gone, and tears fill my eyes anew.

  Suddenly overcome with emotion, I throw my arms around him. Not caring if it’s too soon after everything that’s been revealed tonight. We both need comfort. I can’t deny myself any longer.

  He stiffens for a minute, before wrapping me up in his huge arms, squeezing me. Holding onto me like I’m a lifeline. He inh
ales deeply, burying his face in my neck.

  “I feel like it’s my fault you went to prison,” I whisper against his chest.

  He pulls back, and his eyes are furious. “Don’t ever think that. That’s what he wants you to think, and he’s not winning.”

  I bite my lip to prevent it from quivering and nod my head.

  “I’m not mad at you anymore, and I feel like I should be,” I say honestly.

  He smiles a real, genuine smile, and it’s beautiful. With his piercings and tattoos, and the somewhat savage look only he can possess, it makes him look like an avenging angel, and I guess in a way he is.

  “Do you want to touch me?” I whisper, because I want him, and maybe, just maybe, I might actually need him. Need the comfort and feel of a warm body against mine. One who knows all my secrets, and is still staring at me the way only Nixon can. I feel like he understands me, and that’s something I’ll never be able to give up.

  I see him swallow. “Yes, but I understand if you don’t want to be touched.”

  I stiffen slightly. I know he’s being gentle with me, and I’m so grateful for that, but I also kinda wish he’d make that first move. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if he was a little rough with me. If we could just forget everything we’d been through, and he could show me what all my friends were always raving about. And maybe I could be one of those girls who knew what she was doing and who could make men like Nixon fall to his knees? Correction: Not men like Nixon. Just Nixon. Because the desire I’ve felt toward him has been like an explosion from the start. A deep ache that has always been there, but just needed the right person to unleash it.

  “What do you want?” I whisper huskily, not able to help the tone of my voice. “If we hadn’t been through all this drama, what would you want? What would you want to do to me?'' I ask, and watch his brows shoot up in surprise before he swallows.

  “Even if we both had the perfect pasts, I would still want the same thing.”