Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  “I guess not. So, is it safe to come out yet?” A minute smirk tugs at her lip. This is a ruse and she knows it. She’s testing me. I’ve come this far, though. May as well exploit this situation for all I can now. I peek around the tree again

  “Almost. A few more minutes. Better to be safe.” I adjust my position, sliding my hands down the backs of her thighs, gently urging her to wrap her legs around my waist. “May as well be comfortable.”

  She obliges, hooking her arm around my neck for more stability. It brings our faces closer again, our bodies melding even tighter. I feel her gasp against my lips with unexpected awareness, and I’m suddenly conscious that she can now feel the extent of my erection.

  I’m so fucking busted.

  Chapter Ten

  Savannah

  MINUTES FEEL LIKE HOURS AS we remain pressed together in this position behind the tree. I’m aware of my heart pounding inside my chest and wonder if he can feel the vibrations. His breath feathers across my lips and face, and the heat of his skin intensifies his woody masculine scent. Mostly, though, I can feel him. I know it’s him as opposed to something in his pocket because it’s hot and hard and pulsing against my inner thigh. Heat soars through my body, burning me from the inside out, and I feel this overwhelming urge to push my hips forward, to shift just a fraction to the left, to feel him against me. My insides ache. Just as my body is about to betray me, I feel a familiar twinge in my hip. My body is complaining under the strain of this position—either that or my subconscious is issuing a word of warning. I grimace under the pain, and as I push him gently away, I lower my feet to the ground. He releases me instantly, and reflexively, I begin to rub at my hip.

  “What is it?” His face is etched with concern.

  “No, nothing, it’s … nothing.”

  “Let me see.” It isn’t a request, and without pause, he lifts the hem of my tank to reveal the edge of my bruise peeking out above the rim of my shorts. “Wow. That’s one hell of a bruise.”

  Feeling embarrassed, I step away and tug at my tank to cover myself. “It’s almost healed. Sometimes it just complains a little. Actually, I’ve got a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we head back?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were feeling unwell.”

  “Oh, it’s probably just the sun and all the excitement.” My cheeks heat again as I recognize how my words might be misinterpreted. “The hunters, I mean.”

  He smiles. “I know what you mean.”

  Face burning, heart beating like a drum, I turn and head back down the path.

  * * *

  Bear insists I take a couple of Advil as he settles me on the porch with a glass of iced water and then disappears inside to start on dinner. I take them, not because I’ve got a headache—that was just an excuse to head back—but because I think it may help with the ache in my hip. It might be crazy, but I feel like the pain manifested because of the improper thoughts I was having about Bear—like the incorporeal voice of Nick was banging on the door of my conscious, reminding me of my wedding vows, digging his fingers into my bruised and battered flesh, like he often does, to warn me not to defy him. Usually it works like a dream, but now as I sit here I suddenly don’t feel like shrinking away from Nick’s menacing threats. I don’t feel much like remembering my wedding vows either. Instead, I picture the look of genuine caring concern on Bear’s face when he inquired about my pain—pain that Nick had taken great joy inflicting. It’s like, for the first time ever, I see things for what they really are, and I dare to imagine what life might feel like not living under such circumstances.

  Instead of diarizing my life and shutting it away to forget, in the same way I refuse to look in a mirror when my body is covered in bruises, I suddenly have the urge to confront it. See the pain. Feel it. Understand it for the sick and twisted reality that it is.

  I stare at my folder on the table where I left it, next to the chair I’m sitting on. Reaching for it, I turn the pages until I find the section I’m searching for and retrieve the hidden pages sandwiched inside. The poem I stare down at was one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. The words are dark and sinister and to a large degree ambiguous. I know that’s partly intentional, but I’m also aware that it’s just the way my mind interprets the chaos in my heart. Either way, right now it’s a window into the truth about my life. I’ve never read it back before, probably because I’ve never felt the need to dwell. Maybe I need to justify these thoughts and feelings I’m having about Bear, and that’s why now I’m prepared to lift the curtain and take a peek inside. The poem doesn’t relate to a solitary incident, but it reminds me of the most recent event of its kind. Just a few days ago, in fact. My mind goes dark, my heart freezing to ice as I dig deep for the courage to recall it.

  The floorboard creaked out in the hallway, the one directly outside the bathroom, and I jolted out of my semiconscious state. I held my breath, hoping that the next noise I heard was that of Nick’s bedroom door closing gently. A loud thud. The sound of him stumbling and cussing told me he was drunk, and my hair stood on end, my body tensing painfully. The sound of another floorboard groaned under his weight, and I knew he was headed in my direction. Quickly, I curled up on my side, facing away from the door, and hoped beyond hope that he’d turn around and go back to bed.

  I was hoping for a miracle, and it was futile.

  My door opened and the light from the hallway poured in to my room. Even behind my eyelids, I could see how bright it was. My breathing was deep and uneven as I tried in vain to slow my heart rate. Already, I was burning hot, desperate to throw the covers off to cool down, but instead I remained deathly still. A shadow fell across my face, and I knew he was standing directly in front of me.

  “Wakey, wakey.” He reached down patting me firmly on my cheek. My eyes blinked open, wide in panic. “Duty calls.”

  “I’m not feeling very well, Nick.” Despite how hot I was, I gripped the sheet and pulled it firmly under my chin.

  “Ugh, you never are. Such a sickly bitch. Get fucking ready.”

  Gripping the edge of my comforter, he yanked aggressively and deposited it on the floor. Then releasing his tie and kicking off his shoes at the same time, he began to undress.

  “I don’t want to see your face.”

  I knew exactly what he meant by this, and I knew there was no point in resisting. Resisting only made him more aggressive. Trembling, I pulled my nightshirt over my head and tossed it aside before lying down on my front, placing a pillow beneath my hips to raise me slightly from the mattress. I turned my face away from him and closed my eyes.

  The mattress dipped as he crawled behind me and tugged my legs apart. He fumbled with himself for a minute or two, mumbling cuss words under his breath, his fingers digging into my buttock painfully as he readied himself. With every bit of strength I could muster, I urged myself to relax, take a deep breath, and brace myself for what was to come.

  Pain shot through my entire body as he rammed into me, my breath tearing from my lungs. He grunted and groaned like a feral animal attacking its prey, cruel insults spilling from his vile mouth. I prayed for a quick completion, but I knew from the way he moved that he was highly intoxicated and that, realistically, it could take forever.

  Every inch of me hurt as I suffered his punishing assault over and over. He was becoming frustrated that his climax was nowhere in sight, his action growing more erratic, sweat pouring from his skin onto mine. A pungent stench of evil filled the air.

  Suddenly he pulled from me and dread gripped me by the throat.

  “Fucking useless bitch!” Blows rained down on me—my back, my hips, my legs. Then his weight shifted as he crawled up my back, one knee on the mattress by my side, the other pushed agonizingly into my shoulder blade just to the right of my spine. The jerking became frenzied as he pumped himself into his own fist.

  “Do it my fucking self!”

  Then the moment I was most dreading came when he gripped a handfu
l of hair and turning my head forced my face into the pillow. Panic engulfed me instantly, and I started to fight, kicking my legs and grabbing at the hand that held me down, that stole the air from my lungs. My struggle pushed him over the edge and finally he stilled, releasing his grip on my hair. His venom spilled onto my face and neck, poison leaking into my mouth as I heaved and gagged for air. For seconds, it wasn’t enough, my ability to breathe still impeded by the weight of his knee in my back.

  Just in time, he heaved himself off, and I could hear him collecting his clothes. Although my body was begging me to, I didn’t move. I hadn’t been granted permission. Suddenly he was by my side, reaching down to smear his mess into my face before wiping his hand clean on the surface of my sheet.

  “Pointless bitch.”

  I snap back to the here and now, rubbing my hands down the prickling skin on my arms to rid myself of the clinging repulsion. For years, I’ve allowed myself to believe that it’s normal. Relationships go stale. What does it matter as long as you love each other?

  That isn’t love. It’s not even sex. It’s rape. There, I said it. Nick is a rapist.

  I’ve read about love and passion. Seen it in the movies. Heard my friends and even mere acquaintances talking about the way it makes them feel and think and act. I know about the racing heart and sweaty palms and about the couples who make wild hedonistic love in all sorts of unusual places, barely able to keeps their hands off each other, their thoughts filled with that single individual person twenty-four hours a day. I’ve dreamed of surreptitious encounters with faceless men, woken up with earth-shattering orgasms rippling through my body, fantasized about falling in love. But I’ve never ever even come close to experiencing any of it in reality.

  Back there in the woods, though, the way my body reacted to Bear … that was a glimmer of what I thought it would feel like to really want someone and to want them to want me. Closing my eyes, I play it over in my mind. Large arms engulfing me in a strong, safe hold, his body pressed up against mine. His breath on my face, his scent, his touch, him hard as steel beneath his jeans. Oh Lord, I am so ridiculously aroused right now.

  There’s something about him that changes the way I feel about my life. That makes my soul swell with hope. The way he looks at me, with those smoldering brown eyes, makes me feel like a woman—desirable, sexy, and in control. I think he wanted to kiss me. And I wanted him to. Does that make me a bad person? If it does, maybe I don’t care. Maybe I want to be bad. Just once.

  “Are you okay? You look flushed.” Seemingly from nowhere, he appears. “You’re not running a fever, are you? Here, let me see.”

  He strides over to me and lays the back of his hand against my forehead. My skin is burning, and I’m slightly breathless, but not because I’m ailing for something. I lean into his touch without thinking, angling my face to allow his fingers to brush my cheek. Our eyes meet again, transfixed and frozen in place. Only for a few seconds, but something passes between us. A spark of electricity. A question. An understanding.

  “Thank you.” I speak the words almost to myself because I’m not even sure what I mean by them.

  “What for?” He smiles, but he looks vaguely perplexed.

  “For … being so considerate. But actually, I’m feeling fine now.”

  “You sure?”

  Nodding, I stand and wipe my palms across my shorts. “Can I help with dinner?”

  “No. That’s why I came to get you. It’s all ready.”

  Smiling broadly, he holds out his hand for mine.

  Why do I feel that I’ll be giving him far more than my hand if I take it, like turning onto a road down a one-way street? Choose this path and there’s no going back.

  Returning his smile, I boldly reach out and take his proffered hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jackson

  She seems different today, in some way. Contemplative, but at the same time sort of resolute. It suits her. She has no idea how sexy she is. Most women who look that good work it with attitude—and so they should; I’m not judging. But she doesn’t need to work it, as such. She somehow just wears her sensuality like a weightless cloak, subtly and unobtrusively as if she’s completely oblivious to its presence.

  It must have been the story about her parents that made me feel so protective of her, but I didn’t think twice about what I needed to do when I saw those hunters. Who am I kidding, I’ve been bursting my pants the last few days. I couldn’t wait to lay my hands on her. She responded too. I could sense it. It was subtle, but I could swear she tipped her hips toward me, her face and skin all glowing, her scent intensifying as she became more aware of me there between her thighs. Christ, I was so damn desperate to kiss her. Made me feel like a stupid teenager all over again, riddled with hormones and a permanent boner.

  Then her expression changed in an instant and fuck, that bruise! I’ve not stopped thinking about it since. It’s easy to forget how small she is; you can’t go throwing a little bird around like that—I mean, literally, I could carry her around on my back all day and she wouldn’t feel much heavier than a backpack. My feelings felt all tangled up inside then. Half of me wanting to manhandle her back to the cabin and throw her about the bedroom, taking her in all kinds of positions, the other half wanting … needing to cosset her, defend her, repair her—like a tiny bird with a broken wing. So fucking confusing.

  Now we sit here in a comfortable silence on the porch, her sipping a glass of wine, me imagining the crisp, refreshing tang in my mouth if I could taste it on her lips. Throughout dinner we chatted at ease, talking about favorite foods and movies and books, but now, like last night, it seems that watching the sun go down after dinner is something we both enjoy doing almost privately—together but alone with our thoughts. My gaze is drawn to the hem of her tank pulled down to meet the waistband of her shorts, and I wonder again about the bruise.

  “Sav … Sparrow?”

  “Yes?”

  “The bruise on your hip. Was it me? Did I hurt you?” For seconds, she doesn’t speak, and I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed her. “Was it when I threw you into the trunk or over my shoulder when you ran into the woods? I’m so sorry if it was.”

  Now she looks horrified as she shakes her head in protest. “No, God, no. Of course it wasn’t you.”

  “Then what? How did you get it?”

  “Oh, I can’t even remember. I’m just clumsy. I’m forever banging into things. Goddamn bruises everywhere. Look.” She holds out her bare foot and indicates her little toe. The nail is missing and the skin is a purplish pink. “I stubbed this against the frame walking through a doorway. I think I suffer from a severe shortage of coordination skills. I mean, who does that?”

  I laugh, because the image is funny, but from what I’ve seen I’d never describe her as clumsy. She always appears so graceful.

  “What about you? I bet you’ve some stories to go with your war wounds. How did you get the scar on your shoulder?”

  It’s my turn to look awkward. “Ah, you noticed that?”

  She laughs. “I must confess, I actually thought it could be a gunshot wound when I first saw it.”

  I grimace, deciding quickly in my head how much truth my answer should contain. Rules are rules, Jackson. She notices my expression and her face drops.

  “It isn’t, is it?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not some trigger-happy gun-slinging outlaw. It wasn’t the gunfight at the O.K. Corral or anything.”

  “But someone did try to kill you?”

  “Not exactly. I just got between the bullet and the intended target.”

  “Oh, I see. Who was that?”

  “Someone I was prepared to die for.”

  A shadow crosses her face, and I decide to keep detail to a minimum. The full story isn’t one I wish to rehash anyway. A day best left in the past.

  “Anyway, the point is, I was as lucky as you can get with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Bullet didn’t hit a main artery or cause significant nerve
damage. A fraction of an inch and it could have been a different story, so I count my blessings every day.”

  She looks thoughtful as she nods slowly, as if absorbing what I’ve said, no doubt deciding what kind of man I must be to get mixed up in guns and murder.

  “That must be nice.”

  I wonder if I hear her right, and I turn her words around in my head trying to figure out what she actually means. “What? Counting my blessings or getting shot? I can think of a lot of ways to describe what it feels like to be shot, but nice isn’t really one of them.”

  “No, of course not. Sorry, I meant it must be nice to have someone who’s prepared to die for you. Or that you’re prepared to die for.”

  Of all the parts of that story I’m expecting her to focus on, that isn’t it. Then I realize she’s talking about herself, her life, her marriage and its shortcomings.

  “Maybe,” I reply, being purposefully skeptical. “Or maybe having that someone is like being handed a life sentence of anxiety. Every life choice you make has to be the right choice for someone else as well as yourself. Every wrong decision has consequences. If you go around loving no one but yourself, there’s no one to disappoint, no promises to break, no standards to adhere to but your own. Every choice you make is because it’s the right one for you. Far less exhausting, if you ask me.”

  “Alright, Mr. Cynical. I guess when you put it like that, I’d have to agree. So, does that concept extend to being a parent?”

  My mind flips briefly to my childhood, memories of my own parents crawling under my skin like ants. “To being a good one, yes. The decision to love someone unconditionally and selflessly for the remainder of your days should be the most important decision of your life. Being a good parent means you’ll never make a choice ever again that is just about you. Imagine how exhausting the worry from that kind of dedication must be. Unfortunately, too many people think becoming a parent is a God-given right—procreate and then decide they’re selfish bastards later.”