Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  Two people who never really even existed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Savannah

  PAIN WAKES ME FROM A fitful sleep, but I’m afraid to move. Bruised and broken ribs are no strangers to me, so I know exactly what to expect when I try to heave myself out of bed. Even breathing is excruciating. My mouth is bone dry, and I desperately need pain relief, but I know if I don’t do this at a snail’s pace, the nausea will hit and dry heaving my guts up right now is an absolute no-no.

  Apart from the pain racking my body, there is a dull ache in my chest where I guess my heart should be. There is a desolate hollowness to my life now that wasn’t there before. My situation with Nick hasn’t changed, but I have. It’s like life threw me a brief glimpse of what it could be like, dangled a carrot before cruelly snatching it away again, my true fate laughing hysterically at my naivety. This huge Jackson-shaped crater that has formed in my heart now makes my living hell more intolerable than ever before. Each time I close my eyes, I see his face. I thought I’d be able to live with that, like the mere memory of those fleeting blissful days with him would be sufficient to satisfy my hunger and suppress my loneliness. Just a gentle drip feed of happiness, enough to get me through. But those memories are tainted now, ugly and laid bare for the lewd fantasies that they truly are.

  Beyond the pain in my ribs and the emptiness inside, it’s my pride that has suffered tenfold. My brazened belief in myself, though brief, has now been firmly bashed back into place, and it is nothing less than soul-destroying. Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous—falling for a man in as little time as a week but being with him every hour of every day made it feel like a lifetime. I feel naïve. Stupid. I want to close my eyes, sleep, and forget it ever happened, but when I do I find myself summoning dreams that take me back to that morsel of time that encompassed a happy me encased in the arms of a brown-eyed man, his fingers entwined in mine as he holds my hand until I fall asleep.

  I don’t know which state of consciousness hurts the most.

  * * *

  When I wake again, the need for pain meds is paramount. I can’t afford to take it too slowly either because my bladder is demanding I empty it immediately. I shift on to my knees and rise that way, attempting to isolate the strain to the core of my body, and walk slowly to the en-suite bathroom. Switching on the light, I survey the room from the doorway. The floor is covered in water from where it spilled over from the tub when Nick dragged me out by my hair. A couple of towels lie heavily sodden with water—I’d passed out at some point and when I came to, I was too disoriented to move, so I pulled them over me to help with the shivering. Dodging the puddles, I tread carefully to the toilet before I cause another.

  My ribs are black and blue, front and back, and to top it off, I have a fat lip. I vaguely recall hitting the floor face-first as I slipped in the water in my haste to get away from him. He rarely hits me in my face, so I doubt the damage is from his fists. I reach out painfully for Nick’s weapon of choice, my hairbrush, and begin to work my way slowly through my matted hair.

  It’s midmorning by the time I make it downstairs. Though all the curtains are still drawn, it is light enough to see the mess everywhere. There’s a note on the hall table from Nick. I already know what it says before I read it: last night was a simple misunderstanding and he’ll make it up to me tonight; get the house in shipshape, make his favorite dinner, and he’ll be home to enjoy it by 7:00 pm at the latest. We’ll put it all behind us.

  When he finally stopped for breath last night and asked me how in the hell I was able to get a suntan when I’d been locked in a room for a week. I’d managed to muster an answer that went some way to appeasing him. I told him I’d disobeyed him on the day I was abducted. I’d walked to the park and removed my jacket and sweat pants—the heat had been unbearable—and lay down to draw. My skin had burned and left strap marks from the vest I’d been wearing, and my legs had tanned in the shorts I’d dared to wear. It’s a considerable misdemeanor in itself, given that Nick agrees to my daily walks on the understanding that I keep my body covered and he chooses the clothes that I’m to wear. My contempt earned me one more blow before he’d left me to pass out on the bathroom floor. He returned a few hours later looking as contrite as Nick could ever look and helped me to my feet before guiding me to my bed. I recall him muttering something about making an assumption that anyone could have made. He fed me Advil and then covered my trembling body with a sheet. There was a smell that seemed to emanate from his skin and his clothes—an earthy, damp, and decaying odor. I’m not sure if it was real or just something my imagination had conjured, a representation of the festering situation I find myself in. Then, stroking my wet hair halfheartedly from my face, he whispered, “Cheer up, Sav. You’re home now. Back where you belong.”

  I screw the note into a ball and make my way outside. Other than lying down to die, there is only one thing I’m interested in doing right now and that’s finding Shadow. I call her name over and over—I know that if she can hear my voice, she’ll come running, particularly if she hasn’t eaten for a while—but nothing. She may have ventured further than usual in search of food and that’s why she can’t hear me, but instead of the thought easing my concern, it just deepens it. I think of the danger she would have encountered, the traffic, or that maybe she could have been trapped inside a hut or garage or some other place searching for shelter. Maybe someone took pity on her and took her in, and though this is the best of the worst scenarios materializing in my brain, the thought of never seeing her again is unbearable. Weighed down with agonizing pain and despair, I drag myself inside and set about cleaning the house.

  It takes the entire day. Between pausing to sit out the bouts of pain-induced nausea and going outside to call for Shadow, I manage to clean the entire house, check and re-check that everything is in its place, plus throw together some semblance of a balanced meal with the minimal groceries I have at my disposal. Nick is probably expecting me to have stocked the refrigerator as well as everything else, but there is no way I had the time or the energy.

  By the time 7:00 pm rolls around, I am desperate for rest and sleep, though I can’t see it as a possibility any time soon. I time the risotto perfectly and, with shaking hands, dish up as soon as I hear his key in the door, praying that my husband is in an amicable mood. It seems I’m in luck for once because not only is he wearing a smile, he’s carrying wine and an enormous bunch of flowers.

  “The place looks great. I knew I kept you around for something.” He beams as he enters the kitchen and thrusts the flowers at me. Irritation flashes briefly in his eyes as his gaze falls on my busted lip. “You’ll need to stay indoors for a few days.” It’s not a request, it’s an order. Nick will be mortified if anyone so much as suspected he was capable of hurting me. “What’s cooking?” He stalks over to the table to see what’s on offer. “Oh, risotto.” His disappointment is palpable.

  “I’m sorry, we didn’t have much in, and…” I point to my lip “…I thought you’d prefer it if I didn’t venture out just yet.”

  “Ah. Quite right. Well risotto it is, then.” He nods at the bouquet I’m holding. “You haven’t mentioned the flowers.”

  “Oh!” I force a smile and tip my head to sniff a rose. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They cost an absolute fortune.” He pauses before adding, “Say thank you, then.”

  “Thank you! Yes, of course, thank you.”

  “Wine glasses?”

  I put down the flowers and rush to get glasses, trying not to wince as I move; Nick hates it when I remind him of the damage he causes. He pours us each a glass and we sit to eat. With the combination of pain meds and queasiness, wine is the last thing I feel like drinking, the food is hard enough to push past my lips, but I daren’t for a second seem ungrateful for the gesture, so I push through. Unusually, Nick makes conversation, telling me about his day, how tough it’s been and how hard he’s working. I make sympathetic noises, nod and smile in the right places, a
nd ask what I think are appropriate questions.

  Though the company is technically mine, inherited from my father, I know next to nothing about it. After my parents’ passing, Nick’s father, my father’s number two, persuaded me to sign over the general running of the business to him, and he in turn passed it on to Nick when he took early retirement after the death of his wife, Nick’s mom, six years ago. From time to time, I used to ask how the business was doing, attempt to garner some understanding of the commercials, but my quizzing irritates him. He gets angry, accusing me of not trusting him to run things properly, so I tend not to bother these days. The repercussions aren’t worth it.

  The fact he’s in a good mood and talking to me lifts my spirit a little. It’s pathetic, I know, but these minute gestures offer me a sliver of hope. Maybe, in time, my memories of Jackson will fade enough that I don’t feel the physical pain of them every minute of every day. Maybe I can learn how to work Nick’s moods better, and instead of pining after a fictitious romance, I can accept the reality of mundane marriage and embrace what I’m lucky to have.

  “Sav? Savannah?” Nick’s voice jolts me from my wishful thinking. “Dessert. I asked if we had some.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head, my heart sinking. “I’m sorry. There’s ice cream in the freezer. It’s your favorite, pistachio.”

  “I’m not a child, Savannah.”

  “No, of course not. I’ll shop for groceries as soon as my lip—”

  “Okay, enough about the lip. It’s fine. I’ll have to go without.” He throws his napkin onto the table, signifying the end of the meal, and stands. I do the same, immediately collecting the dishes and moving across to the sink. “I’m going to watch some television.”

  “Okay. Shall I make you some coffee?”

  “Maybe later. A scotch would be nice for now.” The last thing I need is for him to drink more alcohol. He’s already had the majority of the wine; the more Nick drinks the more unreasonable and aggressive he becomes. My feelings must show on my face because he scowls at me. “What?”

  “No, nothing. Shall I make it for you?”

  “I think I can manage to pour myself a scotch. I had no choice last week, did I?”

  I’m about to apologize again when he chuckles and walks toward me. “I’m kidding. I know it was beyond your control, so all is forgiven. Now…” he looks me up and down, scrutinizing my appearance, his hand reaching out to pull my hair away from my face “…I think we may have some unfinished business from last night, so clear these dishes and get cleaned up.”

  Dread and repulsion ripples through me, making me physically shudder. Every part of me wants to object, to complain about how much pain I’m in or how tired I am, but I know it’s pointless. Nodding, I force a smile and turn back to the sink. I’ll take as long as I dare to take clearing the dishes and hope he falls asleep or loses interest. If not, I’ll swallow as many pain meds as I can and hope that they dull the ache.

  I’m almost done in the kitchen when I see movement outside, the silhouette of a cat dashing through the backyard and jumping up high on to the wall at the rear. Throwing down the towel, I run outside quickly, calling Shadow’s name. The motion detector light senses me immediately and floods the yard in a white glow, bright enough to see the eyes of a large tabby cat glaring at me before he drops down the other side of the wall out of sight. Disappointment surges through me and with it a new sense of anxiety. Other cats rarely trespass through our yard; Shadow is fiercely territorial. Her scent is diminishing. The fear urges me to call her name again, louder this time and more frantic.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Nick’s voice whisper-shouts from behind me, his annoyance as stark as the bright light.

  “I thought I saw Shadow.” His glare softens a little, morphing into something I can’t quite decipher. “Nick, I’m really worried about her.”

  “You care more about that fucking cat than you do me,” he hisses.

  “No! Of course I don’t,” I lie to save my ass. “I just want her home. She must be desperately afraid by now and practically starving. If I could just go look for her for a little while, walk the streets, see if I can find her. It’s dark now. No one will see me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Just ten minutes. Please, Nick.”

  He shakes his head viciously. “I said no.”

  “But why?”

  “Because there’s no fucking point, that’s why!” His hands are thrust deep in his pockets, but his rage seems subdued somehow.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You want to know where the damn cat is, I’ll show you.”

  Gripping my arm painfully, he drags me to the rear of the garden, pushing his way through overgrown bushes to the base of the wall. A small mound of earth protrudes from the ground and in its center lies Shadow’s red velvet collar.

  Shaking my head, I look from the ground to his face, despising what the scene before me is implying.

  “I was angry. Last night, when I thought you’d lied to me about where you’d been. It’s your fault. If you cared as much about me as you did about that thing, we wouldn’t have half our problems.”

  “What … what did you do?” My voice scrapes past the devastation and incredulity killing me from the inside. I see his eyes shift, focusing on the tears as they spill over onto my cheeks in rivers, and his expression changes. My distress is arousing him. Usually I do my utmost to hide my tears, knowing the effect they have on him, but the loss of the only thing in my life I care about is just too much. I lash out before I even know I’m doing it, swiping my hand hard across his face.

  “I hate you!” I scream. “Hate, hate, hate! She was all I had. Why would you—”

  In a flash he has me by the throat, pinning me up against the wall, my feet dangling helplessly in midair. His fingers dig into my flesh, his grip tightening—he’s choking me. His eyes are black with rage, the muscles of his face trembling with the magnitude of it. Spittle flies from his mouth as he hisses into my face. “You ungrateful bitch. Everything I do for you. The hours I work to put this roof over your head …”

  More venomous words spill from his lips, but I can’t hear them anymore as the world is turning black. I tear at his hands around my neck and kick with my feet but it’s useless. Just before my vision tilts into oblivion, he releases me and I drop heavily to the ground. At first my attempt to breathe is too painful, my airways too bruised and swollen to accept the intrusion of oxygen, but then suddenly my lungs are sucking it in gratefully.

  Nick stands with hands on his hips, his breathing almost as ragged as mine, his expression a mixture of fury and fear. He knows he nearly went too far to turn back this time and the knowledge terrifies him. He stoops to speak to me, his finger pointing into my face. “You stay out here with your precious cat tonight and you might begin to realize where your gratitude and devotion should be focused.” He pushes me face-first into the mound of earth. “I don’t want to see you and I don’t want to hear you. Do you understand?” Unable to speak, I nod. Without another word, he brushes himself off, turns, and heads for the house.

  I curl into myself, pulling my knees in tight, arms folding around my bruised and aching ribs made worse from my ordeal as my body now shudders violently with shock and fear and pure devastation. The only thing I held dear to my heart lies buried in the earth beneath my head, and right now I don’t want to be anywhere else but right here with her. The painful throbbing of my throat prevents the sobs from emerging, so instead I cry silent tears. Tears which meld into the damp decaying earth beneath my face. Tears for Shadow and tears for me. And tears because my heart is grieving for a love that was a lie.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jackson

  NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME, I wonder about my sanity and how long it would actually take to go completely and utterly mad from replaying the same situations and conversations in my head on repeat. For four days now, I’ve sat in the confines of
my car on Savannah’s street watching and hoping. Regret eats away at me as I watch the scenes play out in my mind exactly as they happened but with the fresh knowledge that Savannah had no clue as to why she was there in that cabin in the woods with me. I speculate, constantly, about how it would have changed things if I’d know—if we’d both known—the reality of our circumstances. What I might have said or done differently. What might or might not have transpired between us.

  I spend half my time wishing I’d never laid eyes on this street or Savannah Harper and her peaches and cream scent and perfect petite features. The other half I spend terrified that the memory of her will fade, and so I rerun the intricate details of her all over again just to stamp them into my mind: the slight wiggle of her nose, the harmonic tinkle of her laughter, the graceful sway of her hips, the feel of her dainty hand in mine. Golden hair tumbling over gentle curves, the taste of her on my lips, the heat of her core as I bury myself inside her, the sound of soft gasps escaping from plush lips as her body trembles beneath mine. Like I said … how long for the crazy to set in?

  Deep down I know that my moral compass would have taken over, and I would have turned right around and headed back to Brooklyn if I’d known. Then all these strange, unfamiliar feelings and thoughts inside of me would never have surfaced. Sparrow would never have been a part of me. And for this reason, I know without any uncertainty, that given the chance to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. If that makes me a devious, selfish, shady bastard, then I guess that’s what I am.

  As I watch the numbers on the clock change to 12:10 pm, I know, like the days that have gone before, she isn’t going to walk out that door. My heart sinks with the reality—the need to see her, to explain, even more intense. I’ve begun to question if she’s even in the house and whether she returned here at all. I’ve had a glimpse of him, the husband, leaving in the morning and returning in the evening, but I’ve seen no sign of Savannah. The first couple of days, I waited until he left and then knocked on the door. If she was there, she was ignoring the banging, the incessant ringing of the bell and my pleas as I called out to her to answer the door. The third day and today, I parked further up the road, out of direct sight of the house, and just in case she might recognize my vehicle I used one of Ethan’s instead, hoping she believes I’ve given up and emerges at noon for her walk to the park. But the minutes tick by, swallowing the midday hour, and still nothing.