“Listen to me, Alex,” she says with a shaking voice. “When I leave here tonight, I’m going to file a personal protection order. Nothing you do now can stop me. I’ve got a shark of a lawyer who’s going to make it stick. I’ve saved all your messages, so I have plenty of evidence. If you come near me again, you’re going to be arrested, and I will press charges. You can kiss your career goodbye. Trust me, I’m not worth that.”
“Bitch,” he mutters.
Her grip on the sculpture tightens, and I put my hand over hers, gently restraining her. Her whole body is trembling, but she stands there, her eyes blazing as he leans on the wall and clumsily gets to his feet, clutching his side.
“We’re going down to the auction,” she says to him. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police and tell them you’ve assaulted me and Caleb. We can do this quiet or we can do it loud. I’m fine with either, so it’s up to you.”
Romy is a badass. She’s a fucking badass. It’s all I can do not to cheer for her as she stares into his eyes, daring him to try something. And he might be a loser, he might be a pathetic, abusive son of a bitch … but he’s not insane.
“I’m leaving,” he growls. “Don’t bother with the restraining order.”
“Too late. Now your choice is that or assault charges. Choose. Wisely,” she hisses.
He yanks his tux straight and touches his temple, which is swollen and purple. He looks us over, his jaw working, and my heart jolts. I want to tuck her against my side and hide her from his sight—but Romy needs this. She needs to stand on her own and speak for herself. I’m glad she’s getting a restraining order, though. I take the sculpture from her hand and set it on a side table, then lace my fingers with hers. We slowly follow him up the hall, giving him a generous head start. Instead of going into the gallery space, he walks straight through the entryway and out the front.
Romy pulls up abruptly, gasping. I draw her against my chest as the terror of the last few minutes takes her over. I pull her into a different room, a library by the look of it. Her slender fingers curl into my shirt, and her breaths are sharp and short. I stroke her hair. “You’re all right,” I whisper. “You were so incredibly fucking brave.”
“If you hadn’t showed up, I don’t know what would have happened,” she says, her voice high-pitched, like she’s on the verge of screaming.
I don’t know what would have happened either, and it scares me to death. “I did show up, though, and you’re okay, and now you’re going to take the right steps to protect yourself. If he’s got any brains, he’ll leave you alone.” I bow my head over hers, kissing her forehead. “Do you want to get out of here? We can go wherever you want to go.” But I’m not leaving your side, I silently add. There’s no way she’s getting rid of me tonight. I don’t care if I have to sleep outside her door.
She coils her arms around my waist, her breaths coming a little slower. “No, we’re staying.” She looks up at me with those big green eyes, and I almost tell her exactly how I feel about her. That’s how powerful her gaze on me is. “I want to see the auction, Caleb.”
“You do?”
She swallows hard. “Do I look okay?”
“Are you serious? You look amazing.” I brush a tear off her cheek. It takes serious effort not to crush my lips to hers.
“My mascara isn’t smudged?”
I shake my head. “But I know where the bathroom is, if you need a moment.”
I take her hand and lead her there, then wait outside until she comes out. “It was a little smudged,” she says, giving me an accusatory stare ruined by the mischievous smile on her face.
“I didn’t notice,” I tell her. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hell, I’m not sure I want to do this.
She smoothes her hand over her hair. “Last semester, I let Alex drive me underground for months,” she says. “I let him scare me. I let him make me think I was weak. There is absolutely no way I’m letting him do that again. I want to see your painting sell at auction, and I’m going to sit next to you as it happens.”
As we walk into the gallery room, my heart is about to crack a few of my ribs. She probably has no idea how terrifying this is for me. What if nobody bids? What will it be like to sit here, suffocating in the silent rejection of something I poured my soul into?
The auction is already in progress, and we watch a few smaller pieces sell. Romy grabs me a glass of champagne and wraps my fingers around the stem. “Helps with nerves,” she whispers in my ear, her lips tickling my earlobe. That helps with the nerves, too.
I down that champagne like it’s tap water and she snags me another. I’m pretty loose and mellow by the time my painting is carried to the front, but as soon as it is, that feeling evaporates like dew in the desert.
“Now we have an original painting, oil on canvas, The Healing by local artist Caleb McCallum,” the auctioneer says, his breath huffing loudly into the microphone as he speaks. “We’re going to start the bidding at four hundred.”
My stomach clenches. They asked me what my minimum was when I set up the donation, and Daniel told me that was as low as anyone should ever go. He actually told me to make it six hundred because the painting is so large, but I made it four to lessen the chance that it wouldn’t get a single bid.
Although that’s exactly what seems to be happening now.
The seconds tick by, and my dread grows.
“Four hundred in the back,” says the auctioneer, a smile brightening his creased face.
I sag in my seat, and Romy twines her arm with mine. The sense of relief is overwhelmingly sweet. Someone wants it. Someone wants my painting, enough to spend—
“Six in the front—eight—” The auctioneer gestures at each bidder. “one thousand—one two—”
I gape as paddles bob up and down amongst the crowd, people holding up their fingers to indicate how much, more signals than I can translate.
“Two thousand—two two—two four—”
Romy is clutching my hand so hard that I think my fingers might break, but I don’t care. She’s the only thing that’s holding me upright.
“Three six—three eight—”
Romy kisses my cheek and presses her forehead against my face.
“Five two—five four—”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. My head is spinning.
“Seven thousand—seven two—seven four—my, this one is in demand. Do I have—yes, seven six here—seven eight—”
I bend forward suddenly and set my elbows on my knees, letting my head hang. My hair falls over my face. Romy lays her free palm on my back. She hasn’t let go of my hand.
“Eight four—eight six—ah, yes, nine thousand. Anyone, yes, we have ten thousand, ladies and gentlemen—”
I think I’m having an honest-to-God heart attack. My ears are ringing. “Romy,” I whisper. Get me out of here.
“Ten—ten five, we have ten thousand five hundred here—eleven—eleven five—twelve to the bidder in the front.”
Romy makes this little squeaking noise as murmurs begin all around us. I feel her weight at my back, her arm over my shoulders. My fingers are crushing hers.
“I have twelve thousand—any other bids—we have twelve thousand for this oil on canvas, one of the highest bids we’ve seen for a local artist—at twelve thousand—well done, The Healing by Caleb McCallum, sold at twelve thousand dollars.”
He bangs his gavel on the podium, and the room erupts into applause.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze. Lots of people want to meet me. I shake countless hands and smile until my face aches. The house manager who works with Romy is the funniest—she’s obviously tipsy from the champagne and giddy about all the money my painting raised, and I’m pretty damn giddy myself, so we make quite a pair. As she babbles about all the ways the money could be used, I try to listen, but it mostly goes in one ear and out the other. She gives me a huge hug at the end while Romy stands next to me, giggling.
A few people approach me about commissions, asking for my business card. Of course, I don’t have any, so Romy collects their business cards for me and tells them I’ll be in touch with my contact information. The bidder who bought the painting introduces herself to me—she’s this older lady from Grand Rapids, some wealthy widow who collects art. She tells me she has a daughter who has cancer, and my painting reminds her that miracles can happen. Inspiring, is how she describes it. A lot of people say that to me.
They can project whatever they want onto the painting. It’s really about one moment in time between me and the woman at my side, private, intimate, only between us. For them, though, it could be a million other things, because Romy was right. Once it came out of me, it belonged to the world, in a way, and people can think what they like.
What I think: we cannot get out of here soon enough. I have to be alone with Romy. I have some things to say to her.
Finally, we make our excuses and say our goodbyes. The lights all have golden coronas and everything sparkles as Romy leads me to the door. I’ve had waaaay too much champagne, so it’s a good thing she’s driving. She tucks me into her car and drives away as I slump into the seat.
“You are amazing, Caleb,” she says, her hand sneaking onto my thigh. “I am so happy for you.”
I close my eyes and ride the sensation. She squeezes my leg, and my cock starts to swell, all my blood rushing south. “It’s all because of you,” I mumble. I love you I love you I love you—
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and squint at the text from Amy. Are you home?
I frown, my fingers moving slow. Not yet.
Heard from Katie?
I sit up a little straighter. No. Why?
Dropped her off 2 hrs ago. There was a guy waiting for her at your place. She went with him. Thought you should know.
It takes me a few tries to read it, but then I give up and call Amy. “What do you mean, she went with a guy?” I ask.
Amy sighs. “He was some dark-haired guy on a motorcycle, and Katie got out of my car and went right up to him,” she explains. “Like he’d been waiting for her.”
“And you let her go?”
“What was I supposed to do, Caleb? Tackle her? That’s why I’m letting you know.”
“But you said you dropped her off two hours ago.”
She speaks to someone in the background, Derrick, I assume. “Derrick told me I needed to let you know, so you didn’t come back and find her gone. But also, Caleb, I just checked my purse, and she took all the cash from my wallet.”
I curse. “Did she say who he was? How long she’d be gone?”
“No. She made some comment about how she didn’t think you’d be back tonight, and that was it. I’m sorry, Caleb. I was treating her like an adult, but I know that was probably a mistake.”
“I’ll find her. Thanks for letting me know.” It’s all I can do not to roll down the window and toss the phone onto the road. Goddammit. “Katie’s run off,” I say to Romy after I hang up, my buzz melting away and leaving only a sour uneasiness. “I need to make sure she’s okay.”
“Of course,” she murmurs.
I call Katie, and it rings and rings. I leave a voicemail asking her to call, and then text her.
And then I sit back and churn. Romy’s hand has disappeared from my thigh—she’s gripping the wheel pretty tightly. “Any ideas?” she asks quietly, like she’s afraid she’s going to set me off.
I shake my head. “She said she’s been making friends in this treatment program she’s been attending, but I thought all of them were women, and Amy said she went off with some guy. She doesn’t have the greatest judgment, Romy. I have no idea where she is.”
My phone buzzes, and I let out a broken noise when I see Katie’s name come up. “Katie?”
“Cabe?” she says in a quavering, barely there voice. “Can you come get me? I-I’m in trouble.”
And then she starts to sob.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Romy
I know Catherine has been through hell. I know she works hard to hold herself together, and it must be exhausting. I know she battles chronic mental illness every day, and that takes courage. I know she needs compassion and kindness, and that she’s going to mess up sometimes. That’s part of the deal.
But right now? I’m so pissed off at her that I can barely think. This is Caleb’s moment. His time to shine. He’s had the night of his life, and he stopped in the middle of it to rescue me from the most terrifying moment of mine. He’s fought through so much, and what he deserves is to bask in his triumph.
Instead, I’m driving to the worst part of town to rescue Catherine, and he is quietly panicking in my passenger seat. I want to stop the car and give him whatever he needs, but right now he’s only thinking of his sister. I’ve come to understand this about him, though. He thinks of her first, and he always will. It’s part of why I love him, but I wish he had the space to think of himself.
Maybe that’s my job, though. “What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to go in there, and I’m going to get her out,” he says, his voice flat.
It sends a trill of fear down my spine. Catherine told him she’d taken Amy’s money to pay for some drugs she’d agreed to sell. A member of her therapy group had been kind enough to hook her up. For some reason, Catherine thought this would be a great way to make money, but she’d lost the drugs and still had to pay the dealer. Unfortunately, she didn’t show up with enough money, and now these people are refusing to let her go unless she provides the cash. That’s why she called her big brother, of course. “Should we call the police?”
“I don’t want to get her in trouble. Can you stop at an ATM?”
“Caleb …”
“What am I supposed to do, Romy? They want two hundred dollars.”
“I could help. I’ve got—”
“No,” he says sharply. “We’re not doing that.”
My mouth snaps shut, and Caleb curses. “I’m sorry, Romy. I—I know you have more money than I do, and I don’t want that to get between us. This isn’t your problem.”
But it is, I want to say. Because it involves you. Instead, I pull up to an ATM and watch Caleb withdraw what is likely most of his money, and then we’re off to a dismal neighborhood at the edge of town. Caleb yanks his tie off and shoves it in his pocket.
“Stay here,” he says as I pull up behind a motorcycle parked at the curb. We’re in front of an old one-story home with a large front porch. Shadows move back and forth in front of one of the windows, backlit by orange light. He looks over at me. “I know I said I didn’t want to call the police, but feel free if it looks like we need the help.”
My eyes sting. “I want to come in—”
“No offense, Romy, but you look like a Christmas present in that dress,” he says roughly. “I need to focus on Katie. I won’t be able to do that if you’re in there with me.” He throws the door open and heads up the walk. My heart skips as he knocks on the door and disappears inside.
I stare at the silhouettes in the window, and I recognize which one is his without even trying. How he moves, how he stands. I clutch my phone in my hand, ready to dial 911 if anybody twitches in the wrong direction. But if I do, will Caleb get in trouble, too?
Another wave of frustration crashes over me—Catherine’s drawn him into this mess, and now he’s stuck. I roll down my windows, straining to hear, but all that comes to me is muted music from one of the other houses on the block.
Then someone screams, a piercing, terrorized sound. It’s Catherine. And I don’t think—I run toward it, because Caleb’s in there, and if she’s screaming … she bursts out the front door, wide eyed, at the same time a guy comes crashing through the front window, landing in a sprawl on the rotting porch. Catherine screams again as she stares at the person. I reach her and drag her off the porch as shouts and thuds roll through the shattered window of the front room.
“Get in the car!” I
command, pointing at my backseat. “Where’s Caleb?”
She points a shaking finger to the front room, and I give her a push toward my car. “I’m calling the police!” I shout from the bottom step of the porch, staying down and trying to keep out of sight. I’m hoping they think I’m a disgruntled neighbor. The guy who crashed through the window, who has reddish hair, a pale face, and a gushing nose, crawls toward me, but he doesn’t seem to care that I’m there. He seems to want to get away.
He doesn’t make it far, because a half-second later, two people come toppling out the already-demolished window, landing with a thunderous crash on the red-haired guy. Both of the newcomers are throwing punches.
One of them is Caleb. He rises up, his fist swinging down hard and slamming into the dark-haired guy beneath him. His face is lit by a streetlight. He’s bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his expression is vacant.
“Catherine’s in the car,” I call out, hoping to snap him out of it.
It works. His head jerks up and his eyes meet mine. Unfortunately, it gives his opponent enough time to kick him in the chest, sending him careening backwards. He hits the porch railing and it buckles with a crunch. The dark-haired guy gets to his knees and reaches into his pocket. I don’t waste time finding out what he’s got in there.
“Hey,” I say, drawing his attention to me. “I wasn’t kidding about the police.”
He squints at me, like he’s trying to figure out who in the hell I am, and in that moment Caleb gets to his feet. He grabs the guy’s greasy black hair and smashes his face into the porch railing.
“We need to leave now,” I say.
Caleb staggers toward me and I put my arm around his waist and help him down the stairs. He’s limping and bleeding. “What happened?” I say as I hustle him down the walk. Catherine’s already in the back, the engine’s still running, but those guys on the porch are stirring. I hear them thumping around behind us.
“They weren’t going to let her go unless I gave up my wallet,” he mumbles.
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