It could not have been more obvious that he was lying. Why he lied was beyond her comprehension, and it instantly frightened her. She was painstakingly crawling back toward dignity after losing it all to the biggest liar and deceiver there ever was, and she did not want to repeat her mistakes.
Her mouth tightened. “Maybe I should go home.”
“No!” he insisted, all signs of fatigue vanishing as he gave her arm a gentle squeeze. Could she tell he was lying? Did she know the shameful truth behind the scar? More quietly, he implored, “I don’t want you to go.”
She lay in his arms quietly, pensively, tensely for several moments. She didn’t really want to go, to leave the cocoon of his warm embrace, but she could not get hurt again. She was terribly frightened of being deceived, of being manipulated, and something about this situation felt oh-so-familiar.
“After the incredible day we’ve had—finding this apartment, the game, dinner, shopping for sheets, um, well, making the bed—”
She couldn’t help but grin at that.
“—taking a shower, you’re going to leave now? You can’t do that. It would be crazy.”
She considered his entreaty. After that mind-blowing sex, how in the world could she think of leaving? It had been magical, the most romantic evening she’d ever experienced. She would probably never find a man like him again.
Bravely taking a deep breath, she confessed, “I guess I’m scared.”
“Scared?”
She swallowed hard. “Scared of …” She hesitated, the words scared of falling in love popping up in her mind. “Scared of getting hurt,” she finished instead.
Grant squeezed her a little tighter in his arms. “I’m scared too,” he said solemnly. “I don’t want to be alone in this new apartment. I’m scared …” He paused dramatically. “Scared of the dark.”
She burst out laughing when she realized he was joking, and it was joyous to feel her body shake with giggles in his arms. He nudged his mouth closer to her ear and whispered, “You can’t leave, Sophie. The monsters under the bed might get me unless you’re here.”
“Well, I’m staying then,” she said. “I can’t leave you all alone in the dark, your first night in an unfamiliar home, forced to fend off the monsters all by yourself.”
He brushed his fingertips lovingly across her cheek. “Thank you, Bonnie.”
“You’re welcome, Clyde.”
Feathering a kiss below her ear, he explained, “It was either Bonnie or McShrink, and I figured you’d like Bonnie better.”
“Mmm, good choice, McSailor.”
His soft touch and melodic voice made her sigh deeply, nestling into him a little tighter, a little deeper. It was okay to let go. It was okay to trust him—he had promised not to hurt her. She felt a drowsy wave roll over her, and her eyes fluttered shut.
Now his eyes were wide open in the dark. Feeling her smooth skin pressed against him, Grant wondered if he would be able to sleep. Disjointed phrases swam in his mind: How did you get that scar? … I’m scared of the dark … Monsters under the bed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to stem the tide of painful memories. With an ache in his chest, he recalled pleading with someone else not to leave him alone in the blackness of his bedroom, lest the monsters emerge. It had not been a joke that time. It had been an earnest plea, and the someone he had begged had been his brother.
A short time later, Grant was dreaming.
They paused outside a thick steel door with peeling dirty paint, and he felt the CO release his arm as the guard whipped out a set of keys. Taking a step toward the rusty lock on the door, the CO instructed, “Don’t move, Madsen.”
“Yes, boss.”
Once the CO unlocked the door and pushed it forward, the hinges groaning, Grant could see the consequence of standing up to his father: a dank, dark hole in the wall. So, this was solitary. The pitch-black space made Grant’s heart thump with terror, and suddenly there seemed to be not enough oxygen in the hallway.
The CO grabbed Grant’s handcuffed wrists and roughly unclasped the metal bindings. “Get in there,” he growled.
Grant’s feet felt glued to the floor as panic coursed through his bloodstream.
“I said—” The CO’s upper lip twitched with anger as he gripped the back of the prisoner’s light-blue button-down shirt, “—get in there!” Grant was shoved forward, and he yelped in pain as his bruised ribs made contact with the doorframe before he stumbled into the darkness.
Regaining his balance, Grant turned to find the CO’s beefy figure silhouetted at the door. “Enjoy the next two months in here, con!”
Grant rushed back toward the light just as the guard slammed the door with a deafening thud. The jangle of the key sliding and turning in the lock would be the punished prisoner’s last contact with anyone for days.
Blindly turning around and stepping backward until he made connection with something solid, Grant’s back slid down the wall and he slumped forward. He could see nothing, and all he could hear were his panting breaths and the pounding of his heart in his eardrums.
You can do this, he told himself, nausea building in his gut and a heavy tightness constricting his throat. The walls seemed to close in, though he had been in solitary for mere seconds. His bruised, beaten body ached, and the cold, hard floor provided little comfort. Drawing his knees up, he hugged them to his chest and rocked himself in a huddled ball of misery.
Dead silence greeted his ears in the soundproofed cell. He was alone with his thoughts. He mentally replayed the fight in the yard. It had taken every ounce of strength Grant possessed to stand up to his father, only to be rewarded by Enzo allowing rapists to beat the shit out of him. His brain flashed back and forth between the blows from the prisoners and the lashings delivered by his father when he was a child. Grant could not distinguish past from present anymore.
Sixty days? He didn’t know how to get through sixty minutes. He should have just obeyed his father, accepted his protection by renouncing Joe. An image of Enzo’s cold charcoal eyes seared into him. The man who had whipped him and tossed him into a closet some twenty years ago had done it again. He would never escape his father.
Prisoners got sent to solitary all the time. Why the hell was he freaking out so badly? He must be weak, pathetic, cowardly—a basket case. “You fucking baby,” he heard himself cry out. His voice dissolved into raspy whispers. “You fucking baby. Do you need a diaper, baby?”
Like the fucking baby he was, Grant began sobbing.
Time passed in the dark hole as Grant lost his grip on reality. He had no idea how long he’d been in there.
Then a blinding light pierced his retinas, and his hands flew to cover his eyes. His heart and mind raced. His body felt wet. Where in the hell was he? What day was it? Gruff male voices began to crash through his consciousness.
“Christ, what’s that smell?”
“… don’t know what’s wrong—he wouldn’t eat anything for days.”
“Get a doctor down here.”
“Fuck, he’s gone j-cat.”
“… whack shack population just increased by one.”
There were disdainful laughs.
Then there was a hand on his forearm, shaking him gently, nudging him awake. Grant opened his eyes and gradually focused on a man sitting next to him with a gray-bearded face. Grant’s eyes widened and with a start he sat up on the bed, scrambling back toward the wall as best he could with his hands cuffed in front of him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Madsen. You’re safe.” The man attempted to assure him, though no assurance was to be found in this strange, unfamiliar room.
Grant glanced down at his pristine white jumpsuit, nervously darting his eyes around the sterile environment, then daring to look once again at the older man staring back at him kindly.
“I’m Dr. McIntyre. You’re in the psych ward, and it’s March 27, 2006. You came here yesterday after spending three days in solitary. Do you remember any of that?”
Gran
t slowly shook his head. His voice sounded strange and groggy as he inquired, “Why was I taken here?”
Dr. McIntyre hesitated. “You were not doing so well in the hole, son. You had not been eating, and you were, um, unresponsive. Now, I need to perform a mental status exam on you. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to do your best to answer them, okay?”
Still disoriented and upset, Grant tried to be obedient. “Yes, sir.”
The psychiatrist asked several simple questions. Grant guessed he aced the exam because Dr. McIntyre gave him a reassuring smile.
“The medication seems to be working,” he said.
Grant’s voice rose with alarm. “What medication?”
“You’re on olanzapine, an antipsychotic, Mr. Madsen.”
“No! I don’t want any medication!”
“I’m afraid it’s not your choice. You had a psychotic break in there.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need any drugs.”
“You were catatonic, Mr. Madsen. And you, um, well, you had urinated all over yourself in the cell.”
Once the words left the doctor’s mouth, Grant knew they were true. True and devastatingly shameful. He quickly averted his eyes, turning his body toward the wall, away from the prying gaze of the shrink. Helplessly he felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Grant murmured, ducking his head low as his restrained hands came up to cradle his face. He felt naked and exposed as tears of disgrace flowed. He just wanted to disappear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
A river of regret and humiliation streamed down his face.
“Grant, wake up!”
He felt a warm hand cradle his face, tapping him gently. “Grant, honey, it’s okay, wake up.”
With a startled flinch, he opened his eyes and stared into Sophie’s worried gaze, the contours of her face visible in the dim light. He lifted his hands, surprised when they were not handcuffed together.
“You were having a nightmare, Grant.”
Bringing his hands to his face, he was shocked to find his cheeks wet with tears. Clambering into a sitting position, he frantically passed his palms across the sheets, praying he would not find those wet too.
Baffled by his actions, Sophie stared. “What are you looking for?”
Feeling dry sheets beneath him, Grant exhaled, but then noticed her bewildered expression. Oh, God! She was seeing him cry like a little baby! And he could have wet the bed, with her in it next to him. He thought he had peed his pants—a fucking thirty-year-old man wetting the bed! Mortified, he quickly turned away from her. He prepared to flee, run and hide somewhere, when he felt her delicate hand on his shoulder.
“Grant?” Her voice was gentle, so caring. “What’s wrong?”
He angrily shook his head, keeping his back to her. He could never tell her or surely she would leave him. She could never know.
“Why did you keep saying ‘I’m sorry’?”
Fear gripped his heart. How much had he said aloud? He lay back down, keeping his back to her.
Thinking she could help him, Sophie doggedly pursued her line of questioning. “Who were you apologizing to? Who were you telling ‘I’m sorry’?”
You, he thought. I’m sorry you ever met me outside the parole office. I’m sorry I ever dragged your beautiful spirit into my wretched, worthless life. I’m sorry you’ve become such an essential part of my world, when obviously I should let you go.
Without realizing what he was doing, Grant rolled onto his stomach, folded his arms underneath his chest, and clenched his hands tightly over his face. He once again repeated “I’m sorry,” the words muffled by his hands. He felt humiliated that he could not stop crying.
Utterly confused, Sophie peered at his prone naked body—his smooth, muscular back and buttocks exposed defenselessly, revealing the jagged scar, and his entire body trembling as if he were awaiting punishment, a physical beating.
Gasping, she suddenly snapped the puzzle pieces together in her mind: his nightmare at Kirsten’s when he’d pleaded with an unknown tormentor, promising to “be good”; his words about not getting along with his father, contrasted with the adoration he felt for the uncle who saved him; his warning that she stay away from the “bad people” in his life. Was he an abuse survivor? Had his father abused him?
Immediately she reached for him, gently rubbing her hand over his cropped black hair as she scooted closer to his body. Softly stroking his hair, she murmured soothing words. “You’re okay, Grant. It was just a dream. You’re safe here with me. It’s all right to cry, honey. It’s all right to feel scared.”
The tension in his shoulders slowly released with each calming word and soft stroke of her hand. His breathing steadied and his sobs gradually subsided. Tentatively she lifted her naked body off the sheets and straddled his back. She stroked the well-defined muscles of his back with her fingertips, feeling his skin respond to her warm touch. She kneaded his taut shoulder blades with the heels of her hands, delivering a relaxing massage. He allowed her to pull each arm from under his chest, resting them by his side.
After a few minutes of her hands working magic, he let out a shuddering sigh, and Sophie lay next to him once again. He finally rolled over to face her.
She gently wiped the wet trail on his cheeks, then planted soft kisses as he closed his eyes. Eventually she returned her head to the pillow and gazed lovingly toward him. He fondly caressed her face.
Grant’s words were shaky. “Thank you for making me feel better. How did you know what to do?”
“I’m not sure, but I sensed you were really hurting.” Sophie nervously cleared her throat, then added, “Grant, I think I know how you got that scar.”
His breathing hitched, and he could not look her in the eye. “And you’re still here?”
Her eyes flashed sorrow. Like most abuse survivors, he apparently blamed himself. He thought his inherent badness caused the abuse and believed nobody would love him once they learned of it.
“Of course I’m still here. I could never leave my McSailor.”
Slowly raising his gaze to meet hers, their eyes locked with a deep connection and shared understanding. He clasped her hand in his and softly stroked it.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll stand by you as long as you tell me the truth. But if you lie to me again, Grant, I’ll have to leave. I went to prison because a man lied to me, and I won’t let it happen again.”
He nodded. “I understand. But, Sophie, sometimes the truth is painful. I don’t want to make you feel that pain.”
“We’ll get through it together, okay?” She blushed slightly. “I think we make a good team.” She grinned, adding, “Bonnie and Clyde.”
For the first time in hours, he smiled, and it was a lovely sight to behold. He lifted her hand to his full lips and affectionately kissed it.
“I think we need more sleep before our crime spree begins, Clyde. It is the middle of the night, you know.”
Nodding, he drew her body to his, and she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, feeling safe and loved in his strong arms. They drifted into a dreamless sleep.
When Grant awoke the next morning, sun streaming in the curtain-free windows, he was alarmed to find the space next to him empty. Hopping up, he glanced around the small apartment before spying a note on the kitchen counter. She had scrawled in her flowing handwriting on the back of a flyer advertising the pizza place next door.
McSailor,
I had to go home so Kirsten doesn’t worry. But we have another day off work
(yee-hah!), and I definitely want to spend it with YOU!
Here are my coordinates:
900 North Lake Shore Drive, Unit 10
(312) 555-4043
See if you can navigate your way (sober this time) over to my ship.
XOXO, Bonnie
A bright grin filled his face. Then he realized he was standing buck-naked in the middle of his living room, so he dashed back to the b
edroom to get dressed.
He had to get to his Bonnie. He just had to bring her back.
23. Cugino Carlo
Chomping his gum, Logan looked down at his big hands and sighed. It was sticky hot in the car, and he was bored out of his mind. Where the hell was his brother? He’d been staking out their mother’s gravesite for days now.
Given that Chicago had a population of nine million, Logan had no idea how to locate Grant. Perhaps he should have shown more interest in his brother, should have gotten to know him better—his likes, his dislikes, his hobbies. Maybe then he would have a fucking clue about where to find him. But he didn’t know the adult version of Grant at all, so his only lead was this cemetery, where he’d hunted him down twice before.
It was unlike Grant to go so long without visiting her grave. He treated his visits to the desolate headstone like a damn duty or something. Logan hated being here, hated sensing her disapproval, even from six feet under.
Perhaps Grant had chosen another city to call home once released from prison. Nah, Logan just knew he was in Chicago somewhere. Just then, the glare of the sun on an approaching windshield momentarily blinded him. When the car pulled up next to his, he thought maybe he’d lucked out after all. The driver had short black hair, just like Grant, but when Logan squinted his eyes, he detected not the lean grace of his brother but the ferocious energy of someone else entirely, and his excitement morphed into a sick dread.
It was his cousin Carlo.
The shiny, sand-colored Lexus glistened in the summer sun. Carlo shut off the ignition and glanced in the rearview mirror, appreciatively admiring his immaculate appearance while briskly running two fingers through his hair. Then he turned his gaze to Logan. His steely black eyes rested on him disdainfully, and Carlo’s smug acknowledgement made Logan’s stomach clench with resentment.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 22