Never Let Me Fall

by Abbie Roads

  “I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the room. She stared after him, but then turned her attention to the water filling the tub. Already, her body had adapted to the temperature. She reached for the faucet, turning the cold down and the hot up.

  She sank into the water, letting the heat absorb into her. As with the rest of the house, he hadn’t changed anything. The claw-foot tub, the sink, the toilet were all the same. The walls were still the pale green they’d been her entire life.

  She recalled bath time in this tub, splashing and laughing and playing with suds and bubbles. Grandma grinning and giggling. This house—every room of it—contained memories of her life and the people she loved.

  She couldn’t help herself. She grabbed the shampoo bottle from the side of the tub and squirted some in the water, then swished it around, creating a frothy mess of bubbles. It made her heart happy.

  Thomas chuckled when he walked back into the room. “This has got to be the first time anyone’s ever had a bubble bath while fully dressed.” He held a steaming mug out to her.

  Her soaked shirtsleeves weighed down her arms as she reached for it. She held the cup to her face and inhaled the aroma of a strong cup of coffee laced with cream. Tentatively, she took a first sip. Dark and delicious and smooth, it tasted better than the weak prison-issue java she’d been forced to drink.

  A sigh of pure pleasure slipped from her lips as she leaned back in the tub, holding the mug to her face to let its heat and glorious smell waft over her.

  “I brought you some clothes of mine to wear, since it looks like everything out back got destroyed.” He laid a sweatshirt and a pair of track pants on the edge of the sink, then sat on the closed toilet seat next to the tub, watching her drink the coffee. “So what was your plan? Grab your stuff and go?”

  Yes. She focused on the cup, refusing to look at him.

  “After everything, you were just going to vanish?” His volume was barely above a whisper. “Helen.” The way he said her name was a caress of vowels and consonants that pulled her gaze to him. “I know…”

  Who you are… Her brain automatically filled in the rest. Her heart seized like a rusted bolt.

  “I know you’ve been through some really bad shit. I know it left scars…inside and out. But…” He reached down and stroked his hand over her wet hair, then let his fingers trail down her cheek. She couldn’t look away from him. Instead, she clung to his words like a lifeline she didn’t deserve.

  “But…you’re beautiful to me. Inside and out.” Truth shone in his eyes.

  Under another set of circumstances, those words would’ve been the most wondrous thing anyone had ever said to her. But in this reality, they injured her, because they weren’t meant for her. They were meant for Helen, not Helena Grayse.

  He didn’t know that she’d been convicted of murder. He didn’t know that she’d spent the past ten years in Fairson. He didn’t know that she was damaged beyond repair. He didn’t know her.

  Oh God. She wanted to run. To get away from the look of kindness and affection on his face. But there was no escape when she was fully clothed and neck-deep in a bubble bath. She sat her cup on the edge of the tub, then sank underneath the surface, letting the water close over her face and drown the tears that might’ve snuck out.

  She stayed underwater, letting the absolute stillness settle into her soul. When she needed air, she surfaced, only allowing her mouth and nose above water. She preferred to keep her eyes closed and her ears submerged so she could pretend to be floating alone on an ocean.

  Time passed. She didn’t know how much, but enough that she felt strong enough to handle those words he’d thrown at her.

  She emerged out of the water, wiping the suds off her face, then opened her eyes.

  He was gone.

  * * *

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the closed bathroom door as if the key to understanding Helen was written upon the wood.

  From the moment he’d met her, everything he’d done had been for her—with the exception of going to the wedding. But even there, she’d dominated his thoughts, and talking to Evanee and Lathan had been enlightening, to say the least.

  He had never hurt her, done his damnedest to save her, and was determined to protect her. But she shut him out. He accepted that she wasn’t willing to talk. But her refusal to look at him, listen to him… How much more of herself was she going to keep from him? He didn’t want an empty shell that looked like her. He wanted her. All of her. And more than anything, he wanted her to want him.

  He gripped the comb in his hand. He’d meant to set it in there with the clothes but had forgotten.

  Sloshing, splashing sounds came from the other side of the door. It sounded as though she’d taken off the sodden clothing, wringing out each piece. His mind conjured an image of her sitting in the water, bare breasts dewy and glistening while teardrops of water rolled off her nipples. His dick liked the pictures and went full-on baseball bat in his pants. But then he remembered the scars she bore on her body. Evidence of the immense pain she’d endured in Fairson. The reason she had trouble coping.

  Not only was she adjusting to life outside prison, but she had ten years of trauma to process. He couldn’t fathom the hell she’d been through, and yet he was pouting because she was coping the best way she knew… Yeah, total asshole move.

  He sat there, ears tuned to every sound coming from behind the door. And then the water began draining, and a few minutes later, she stepped into the bedroom. In the glow of the bedside lamp, her skin shone healthy and pink. Her hair was a ratty, tangled, endearing mess that dangled over one shoulder. His clothes swallowed her body, but she could wear a barrel and still look magnificent to him.

  He should say something, but profound words were as elusive as fog. Instead, he held up the comb and scooted back on the bed, motioning for her to sit between his spread legs. “Let me take care of your hair.”

  An adorable little wrinkle formed between her brows, but then a ghost of a smile slid over her lips. She moved closer and sat in front of him. He closed his thighs tight around her. Almost as though his legs were a fortress wall surrounding her, keeping her safe. And, well…it just felt right to be touching her. “I’ve never combed a woman’s hair before. Is there a right way or a wrong way?”

  She shook her head and flipped the mass over her shoulder so it hung halfway down her back. In the lamplight, the wet strands looked more bronze than gold. Slowly, he reached out and touched it. Cool and silky and perfect. He held it to his nose and inhaled. The smell of his shampoo mixed with her body’s unique chemistry to form a scent that might as well have been a pheromone with the way his damn dick reacted.

  He shifted back so the thing didn’t poke her in the ass.

  Gently, he separated a section of hair and began at the top, sliding the comb through the strands, teasing out the tangles. There was something oddly relaxing, almost meditative about the task. He didn’t need to think about anything other than the slip and slide of the comb. She set both hands on his thighs, her touch light and gentle. Her head hung forward, and the tension eased out of her shoulders. She was enjoying this as much as he was.

  It didn’t take long for the snarls of hair to submit to the comb. “All done.” He tossed the comb onto the nightstand, then leaned forward, pressing his front to her back, and wrapped his arms loosely around her. She sighed, her body warm and compliant against his. Her hands found his arms where they wound around her, and she held on to him, reciprocating in the only way she could.

  “You had a long, terrible day. Let’s get some rest.” Slowly, lovingly, he guided them both down to the bed. Her wet hair fanned out across the pillow, the beautiful strands tickling his cheek and chin.

  He reached beyond her to the bedside lamp and turned it off. The only light the faint silver glow of stars on the snow outside. He wrapped his arm around he
r waist again, and this time, she grabbed his hand and laced their fingers together. His heart swelled, and his face tingled from the giant smile on his lips.

  She wiggled and snuggled in his embrace, warm and contented. Holding her felt so right.

  Tomorrow, he’d talk to Evanee and Lathan to find out about this thing between him and Helen. Then figure out a way to explain it to Helen that didn’t make him sound like an escapee from the asylum.

  But that was tomorrow.

  Tonight, he had her in his arms and in his bed, and that was miracle enough for today.

  “I’m so glad you came home,” he whispered against her temple and closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion settle into him.

  “Me too.” The words were sleepy and so quiet, they were more of a breath, but he heard them, latched on to them, and was never letting them go.

  Helen had finally spoken.

  Chapter 10

  Above her, below her, all around her was clean and pristine whiteness. The beauty of it intoxicating, but the memory of the last time she’d seen it sobering. This might be a dream, but it fell more into the category of a waking nightmare.

  She looked around the space, searching for someone or something. She was alone, but not alone. Something invisible, intangible was with her.

  Suddenly, the shimmer started on her stomach. Just like last time, it spread through her body, coating her in its power and protection. She flexed her fists, loving how strong it made her feel, but hating that she had no choice in it happening to her.

  “You are the warrior. It is your destiny to teach others how to survive.” The words came out of her mouth but weren’t in her voice. They were deeper, more resonant, and the same words that had been spoken at the beginning of her last dream.

  “Why is this happening? What’s going on?” she asked the endless white around her. Or maybe she needed to speak to the shimmer—maybe it was what controlled the voice.

  As if to answer to her question, the dreamscape dimmed and faded until nothing surrounded her except utter and complete blackness. A black so dense, it suffocated. She thrust her hands out blindly and encountered… Wires? Metal? What was it? She traced her fingers over it, discovering a mesh of some sort. Her hand followed the mesh, up over her head, then down the other side. Fingers dancing, she mapped out the dimension of her space. She was completely enclosed inside the area. Large enough to sit in, too small to lie down in.

  And then her brain sent her a mental image—a cage. She was in a cage.

  Her heart pumped icy fear through her body. Behind her blind eyes, colors burst and faded like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  All her other senses roared online as if their power button had just been hit. The stench overwhelmed her. She’d thought being forced to bunk in the same room as forty-nine other women, many of whom didn’t care about personal hygiene, had been bad? That had been perfume compared to the foulness assaulting her nose.

  Piss. Shit. The odor of unwashed bodies. And something tangy and metallic that threatened to shove her stomach up her throat. She clamped her hand over her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth, but that was worse, because then she could taste the squalor in the air.

  The floor—no, it was damp concrete—chilled her ass cheeks. Wait… Her hands skimmed over her torso, her hips, feeling nothing but skin. She didn’t have a stitch of clothing on, but something thick and heavy ringed her neck. Dull spikes were embedded in the material. She traced it all the way around her neck to what felt like a handle.

  A collar. The kind some gangsta-wannabe would put on his attack dog. A terror unlike any she’d ever experienced bit down on her.

  A soft sigh off to her right snagged her attention and pinched her heart. She stared through the darkness, willing herself to have night vision. But nope. Of course not.

  Was her captor watching her? Was that him sighing? Or was there someone else here in the dark too? Another person in a cage just like her?

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  “Shh…” A harried sound came from in front of her.

  “What’s going on?” She breathed the words, trying to make them as soft as possible and yet still audible enough to be heard.

  “If he hears you, he’ll take you. Hurt you again. You want that? Then be quiet.” The whispered words came from behind. She whipped around but saw more of nothing.

  “Where am I?” she asked, blatantly ignoring the warning to be silent.

  “Oh jeez. Your frickin’ mind snapped.” Another voice sighed into the dark. “You’re one of the Hell Hounds’ bitches. Remember? Now stop talking, or one of them will hear.”

  The words froze everything inside her. She couldn’t even move. Oh God. She wasn’t alone. There were at least four other women here with her.

  When she woke up, she was going to be able to escape this. But these other women… They were trapped here. This wasn’t a nightmare to them. It was their reality. The brakes on her mind screeched to a halt. Was she really thinking that these women were in reality, but she was in a dream? After what she’d seen on the TV in the hospital? Yes, she was.

  Anger warmed her. Anger fueled her. Anger was going to free her. “Come on, you asshole!” She screamed the words as loud as she could. “Come and get me!” She grabbed onto the mesh and rattled it.

  A collective gasp sounded from all around her. Her guts leaped. Holy hell, there had to be at least twenty other women in the room. Somewhere across the dark space, a woman sobbed quietly.

  “Come and get me! Come on! You a bunch of chickenshit cowards?” The words flowed from deep down inside, burning the whole way up like hard liquor burns the whole way down.

  A scrape of metal. A bang. And then orange light as the door was thrown wide.

  A sea of cages. Large dog crates, set side by side throughout the room with narrow pathways leading down the aisles and up the rows. A waste trough ran through the center of the space. They were in a kennel, but instead of dogs, each crate contained a frightened woman. Their eyes wide, all turned on her.

  Her stomach shriveled to the size of a raisin. Oh shit.

  In the doorway, a man stood silhouetted. A big man. “Which one of you bitches is barking?”

  The room full of caged women went obscenely still.

  “Me.” The word came out as a squeak of sound so quiet, she barely heard it. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Me.” In case he hadn’t heard her, she rattled her cage for emphasis.

  The moment Big Man’s gaze landed on her, her stomach expanded from raisin size to watermelon size, threatening to explode out of her in a volcanic eruption. His tiny, fathomless eyes were set in a red bulbous face, draped with a scraggly beard that hung partway down his chest.

  He plowed through the rows of cages, irritability and eagerness putting a spring into his hulking steps.

  “Bitch forgot her lessons on submission. I got no problems being your teacher. And when the rest of the Hounds arrive, they’ll reinforce your learnin’.”

  He used a fat key to unlock her cage and reached inside. It took everything inside her to not scramble away from his grasping hand. He snagged her by the collar, by that handle, and dragged her out.

  Not giving her a chance to stand, he towed her along behind him down the row of cages. Most of the women huddled in the farthest corner of their cages; only the most daring watched.

  One of the women reached her fingers through the wire mesh and trailed them over Helena’s thigh, then down her leg and ankle, as he pulled her past. But the woman in that cage wasn’t a woman. She was a girl barely into her teens. Dark hair, matted and snarled, hung limply over bony legs that she hugged to her chest. Her skin was splotchy with filth and dirt. Her face so thin, she looked skeletal. But her eyes—with their appalling combination of sad and haunted—were what Helena would never forget.

  Big Man dragged her for
ever until he dropped his hold on her and she collapsed. Her gaze darted around the room. Empty tables with chairs stacked on them. Neon signs. Kegs of beer stacked against one wall as decoration. She was in a bar?

  Before she could move, he nabbed her wrists and duct-taped them together in front of her. A few years back, she’d happened upon a video in the Fairson library about how to escape duct tape. It was so damned easy, she hadn’t believed it, but now—maybe, just maybe that video was going to save her life and the lives of all the women in that kennel.

  He wore a ripped and faded Hell Hounds shirt, the material straining against his protruding belly. He might be big. He might be strong. But she was determined.

  “You’ll learn to keep your eyes on the floor, bitch.”

  And you’ll learn I’m nobody’s bitch.

  “Kneel,” he commanded in a voice that sounded very much like a master talking to his slave.

  Best to let him think he’d sufficiently tamed her, since that’s what he was used to. Submission. She complied with his wishes.

  His hand went to his belt. His intentions obvious.

  But her mind was on that girl. A girl. In a cage. A girl who should’ve been out laughing with her friends, enjoying life. Not wearing a face destroyed by despair.

  She would save that girl. She would save them all.

  She clasped her hands together in a double fist and punched upward into Big Guy’s ball sac. He leaped into the air. For such a heavy fellow, he had some hang time before he fell over backward, clutching his nads like he was worried they’d fall off and roll away.

  She raised her duct-taped wrists above her head. With all the force she possessed, she slammed her wrists down while pulling her hands apart. For a moment, she thought the video had been wrong, because she still felt the tape against her skin, but then she realized the tightness of the bond was gone. She was free.

  She scrambled to her feet, tape dangling off her, and nabbed the nearest chair off a table.

  His arm flung out, trying to grab her, while his other hand cupped himself. She hefted the chair over her head and slammed it down on his face. The thunk of wood to bone sounded in her gut. But she raised the thing again, hitting him over and over, losing herself in the satisfying rhythm of bashing his face in. Only when the chair broke did she stop.