Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  “You look like you’re about to give me a bollocking,” I say cautiously. My eyes fall to the splint on her fingers that I’m desperate to ask her about, but I have to tread carefully. Turning, she stands in front of me, feet hip width apart, arms folded, and eyes me with icy blues almost as dark as I’ve ever seen them.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  It’s not the question I’m expecting.

  “First you’re some burly kidnapper with a weird contradictory tender side that loves animals, who actually turns out to be some debauched gigolo with no idea what he is being paid to do. The next you’re some hot shot in a designer suit who appears to be connected to one of the most powerful, successful couples in the country, one of which, for some obscure reason, happens to be meeting with my husband right about now. So…” she holds out raised palms “…help me out here.”

  “Burly?” It’s the word that sticks with me. I can’t help it. She brings out my playful side.

  Giving me the death stare, she shifts her hands to her hips and waits for an alternative answer.

  “Okay. Sorry. I can explain.”

  She closes her eyes, exasperated. “Please.”

  “When we met … the circumstances—”

  “Fantasy. Sexual fantasy. I think those are the words you’re trying to avoid.”

  “Yes. Well that. That isn’t my actual job. It was just a favor I was doing for someone during some downtime from my real job.”

  “So I’m a favor now? One you did just to kill time?”

  “Babe, that’s not what it was and you know it.”

  “Babe?”

  I shrug. The word just popped out. “Babe. Burly. What does it matter? Look, the point is, whatever the reason we were at that cabin in the woods, the guy, the person you met and actually seemed to like at the time, was me, the real me—Jackson Dean. The tender, caring animal lover who taught you to swim and held your hand while you slept wasn’t some character I made up for the part, Savannah. We might have given me a different name, but it doesn’t change who I am. What I do for a job is irrelevant, but for the sake of answering your question in its entirety, my official role is Chief of Security for Wilde Industries, which means all kinds of bollocks you really won’t be interested in. The CEO, who is also my boss, Ethan Wilde, and his wife, Angel, also happen to be my best friends and the only family I have.

  “Now, can we please get past the you-didn’t-know-and-I-didn’t-know-you-didn’t-know. It’s not what’s important anymore.”

  “They’re the couple you told me about. The fairy-tale couple who loved each other against all odds and fought the undefeated for their happy ever after?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Angel? She’s the one you took a bullet for?”

  “Yes. It’s what you do for the people you love.”

  “And it was real? What happened, between us? All of it?”

  “It was for me. I hope it was for you too.”

  “What do you want from me, Jackson?”

  The question seems harsh, like she has no intention of giving it to me, whatever my answer.

  “I want you to start being honest with yourself.” I know immediately it’s the wrong tack as I see her eyes narrow stubbornly, so I reverse and try again. “I want to return something to you.” Reaching for the bag I placed beneath the bench, I open it and retrieve her folder.

  Immediately, her face lights up, her arm stretching out to take it. “My folder. I don’t understand. I put it in the trunk of the Beetle with my backpack and it got towed. At least I thought it had. Did you take it?”

  “The Beetle got towed? No, I didn’t take it.” I feel sudden relief that she clearly hasn’t seen the file she took in its place—the detail on her fantasy. I would’ve hated her to see that. No need to pour salt into an open wound. “Actually, the folder in your backpack wasn’t yours, it was mine. I mixed them up by mistake. I found yours under the passenger seat in my car. It must have slid under and got stuck.”

  “You have a folder?”

  “Well, yes. But just a … work file, not like your folder.”

  Her eyes widen suspiciously, her cheeks pinking as she begins to thumb through the pages.

  “Did you read it?”

  I open my mouth to justify my prying, but I can’t. There is no reasonable excuse.

  “You had no right. How much have you read?”

  “Enough to know that was no accident.” I nod toward her injured hand. “Nor the bruise on your hip at the cabin or the damage to your toe, or even the bruises on your back right now.”

  Reflexively, she stands more squarely, as if to hide the bruises I might be able to see through her clothes. Then suddenly I see her face compute.

  “Angel?”

  I nod. “I swear I only read a tiny bit up until last night. But after what happened with your hand, and Angel saying she saw the bruises on your back, we wanted to be sure.”

  “We? Jesus, who else have you shown it to? Don’t tell me, Ethan was there for story time too?” One look at my face confirms her fear, and she’s livid. Just like the firecracker bursting out of the trunk on that first day. “You had no fucking right, any of you. How would you all like it if some random stranger knew every dirty secret about your lives? Who the hell do you think you are!”

  Wow. Way to go, Jackson. Straight in there with my size twelve boots and I wonder why everything always goes to shit. This couldn’t actually go any worse. She turns on her heel and is about to storm off when something occurs to her, her fiery cheeks paling instantly.

  “Wait. Nick is with Ethan right now. Why, Jackson? What is going on?”

  “I’ll explain, I promise.” I need to get a grip of this situation pronto, before she loses all faith in me and turns her back on me forever. “I just need you to reserve judgment until I do. Sit down, please, and we can talk it through calmly.”

  For a few minutes she seems to alternate between conflicting decisions to stay and hear me out or flip me the bird and hightail it out of here. I let her take the time, knowing that to pressure her right now would not work in my favor.

  “I apologize, unreservedly, for reading your personal stuff. It was wrong on every level to betray your trust like that …” I watch her pupils contract as her anger peters, then foolishly or not, I add, “But I’m not sorry I know what’s going on with you.”

  For a second I think I’ve blown it, but suddenly her shoulders relax, and as if surrendering, she takes a seat on the bench.

  “Nobody was ever supposed to read that stuff. I only wrote it to … to expunge it. To flush out the bad feelings that get left behind, that … hard as stone feeling in my gut. Words—thinking them, writing them—they just help to dull the ache.”

  My throat tightens suddenly, as if constricting around a hard lump. I do not trust my voice to speak, not yet, so I sit back down next to her as close as I think she’ll allow me to be right now. It’s Savannah that breaks the silence.

  “You want to know why I stay, why I put up with it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Actually, I think I know.”

  She looks at me dubiously.

  “I remember you told me about when your parents died and Nick’s father took over the business. The company Nick runs now was initially left to you, but he holds all the cards. Am I right?” I wait until she nods, then add, “The house, too?”

  “Everything. He controls everything. I can’t even buy a soda without asking him first. He’s never allowed me to go to college or to work, my only income comes from Dad’s company which goes through him, so inevitably I don’t see any of it. I’m totally reliant on him. So, no, leaving him isn’t as simple as divvying up the DVDs and calling it a day; it’s nowhere near as simple. I refuse to handover everything my parents worked hard for just like that. I have to figure out a way to take back control first. Otherwise, I leave with nothing but the clothes I stand up in. And even if I was prepared to do that, there’s no way he’d let me just
walk away. He’s told me time and time again that I’m useless without him, that I’d never survive on my own if I ever tried to leave. But more than that, he’s warned me what would happen if I ever dared to try.”

  I feel the anger and the sadness building inside, but I don’t want to air it. Not yet. Not while she’s talking finally. This is the first time she’s ever spoken about this, and I have to give her the space for her own emotions.

  “He wasn’t always a bad man, not really. He’s always been tyrannous and egotistical, but in the early years he was good to me, made me feel special, worthy. Being popular has always been important to him, always needing to be the best. Football team captain, the leader of the in-crowd, you know the type. The boys wanted to be him and the girls wanted to be with him; he was a catch. I thought I was lucky—rather he told me I was lucky. Everyone did. When my parents died and his family took me in, he looked after me, made me feel safe. Without him—without them—I would have been completely alone. I felt that I owed them everything, and so I gave them everything. I was just a kid. I didn’t realize the gravity of the choices I was making. Before I knew it, we were married, and gradually, I lost every bit of my independence. Nick had this way of convincing me of things, telling me I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to go to college or to get a job, blaming my fragility on why I couldn’t be trusted with my inheritance—our future—so he gave me an allowance, like a child. He enjoyed the control it gave him, began to thrive on it. He never allowed me to forget how much I relied on him or how grateful I should be. When Nick’s mom died of breast cancer seven years ago, the abuse became physical. He was angry. Devastated about having her taken from him, and he took it out on me. I think he actually saw her death as a weakness on his part and that he had to make up for it somehow, show the world he was in charge. His father couldn’t handle the grief and stepped down from the company, handing Nick the reins. I thought having the control he craved would give him purpose again, boost his dwindling ego, but instead the power went to his head. Finally, he had complete control over me, and it … aroused him. I could tell. He knew I was trapped, and he made it his business to keep me that way. Until recently, he even told me what to wear in the morning, what time I could eat and sleep. But not anymore. I’m done. Especially after last night.” She seems to steel herself, a sort of resoluteness stiffening her spine and making her sit taller.

  There’s so much I want to say about what she’s just told me, but I feel like I need to tread carefully. I was half expecting her to deny the abuse, to have to convince her that she deserves better than a violent relationship, that there’s life beyond it. But something tells me she’s arrived at that conclusion herself. She doesn’t need me to tell her, to plead with her to see sense. To save her. She’s not my mother. So I decide to say as little as possible. Just enough to walk beside her while she figures this out in her own way.

  “What’s different about last night?”

  “You remember I told you about my cat, Shadow?”

  I nod.

  “He killed her. Buried her in the garden when I was … with you.”

  My blood is back on the boil again, my jaw clenching tight to keep me from losing my shit.

  “Last night he handed me a gift in front of all his friends. A pair of black fur gloves he had made from her—” Her voice breaks on the last words, and she turns her face away from me.

  I want to hit something. Hard. Preferably his face. But I force the anger down and cautiously reach for her hand. My touch seems to startle her, and I wonder if she’s had any form of affection since the last time I held her in my arms in the cabin. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, she just stares at my hand covering hers, and for the first time since knowing her, I see how lost she is.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Savannah

  THE PLEASURE IS EXQUISITE, THE feeling of his hand on mine—warm and strong. Like the relief of a blanket and a roaring fire when you’ve been frozen to the core, or a refreshing drink when you’ve been parched for hours on end. Exquisite.

  It was only last night that he held me, but it was fleeting, and the pleasure had been suffocated by uncertainty and the fear of being seen, among other tangled emotions. This mere touching of hands, though far less intimate, feels earnest and raw. Like Bear and Sparrow. But it’s a snatched moment, nonetheless. And it’s not enough. If I could flick a switch and be sitting on the jetty at the lake with our feet dangling in the water, hand in hand, in a world where Nick didn’t exist, I would, in a heartbeat. I close my eyes for a second and allow myself the full extent of the pleasure of this single snatched moment before I pull my hand free from his, and I’m astounded by the desolation I feel from the loss of his touch.

  I sense the disappointment radiating from him. He’s hurt and I hate that I’m responsible.

  “I’m not punishing you, Jackson. Me pulling away from you, it isn’t about what happened between us before. I know it looks that way, but you’re right. None of that’s important anymore.”

  “That’s not quite what I said.”

  “No, I know it isn’t. What I mean is that what did happen changed me. That short time with you made me see the world differently, made me see that I have to make changes that are right for me. And it’s all I can focus on right now. Figuring out how to navigate my way through so that I come out not just in one piece but a winner. Anything else—anything that might involve you and me together—I can’t even think about. I don’t know where to place us in my future or … if we even have a place at all.”

  “But you don’t have to do it alone, Savannah. I can help you. We don’t have to be together if you don’t want, but I can look after you. We could go and grab some things right now and be out of here before he gets back. In fact, we don’t even need to do that. I have everything you’ll ever need. Just say the word.”

  “No. The word is no, Jackson. You don’t get it. I don’t want handouts—I’m not throwing it in your face, really I’m not—but I want what’s mine. What my parents built for me … I deserve it. Walking away without fighting for it is not an option. My situation won’t allow for it. I won’t allow for it. I don’t need looking after. I’m not one of your abandoned mistreated animals. I can do this on my own. You taught me that, remember? You’re the one who taught me to be fearless. You said there isn’t anything I can’t do. Well, this. I can do this.”

  “But at what cost, Savannah? I never taught you to take stupid, unnecessary risks. I never taught you that having courage and being strong means going it alone. Did I throw you in the water and leave you to work out how to swim on your own? Did I drag you onto the back of that bike without a helmet, hands free, and just hope that you wouldn’t fall? That’s all I’m suggesting. Just a hand to hold when you most need it. When you’re ready to let go—if you still want to—you can. I’ll let you go.”

  There’s an unsteady wavering of his voice, but it’s not because he’s being deceitful. It sounds like emotion. Despite everything that is unconventional about us—if there will ever even be an us—I know I can trust him. I don’t know how I know but I do. My hesitation has more to do with trusting myself. Those words, “I’ll let you go,” deep down I know I don’t want him to let me go. I just need to know that I can do this with or without him. That if he does let me go, I won’t fall and I won’t drown. I’ll survive.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jackson

  I’M DROWNING HERE. TERRIFIED THAT she’ll push me away altogether, refuse any ounce of help or hand holding that I offer, and just up and walk out of my life for good. If she does, there is a grand total of fuck all I can do about it. Even if she stays, it doesn’t mean anything. She’s made that perfectly clear. I just want a chance to prove to her that not all men are like that sack of shit she’s married to, that she can rely on me. I just want to be near her whatever her terms are. Even if all I can do is watch from a distance, stand on the sidelines just to know she’s safe. I never thought I
would ever be one of those men who would literally walk over hot coals just to get the slightest whiff of hope that maybe someday … But here I am, staring into her blue eyes, a tremble in my voice, practically dripping in desperation as she contemplates whether or not I have a place in her life. If the answer is no, I’m not sure I will ever sleep again.

  “What does it look like? This hand holding?” she asks suspiciously. “And I’m not leaving the house, not yet, so don’t ask that of me.”

  The last thing I want to do is leave her there in that house with him, but I know I’m treading on thin ice as it is. “If I can’t persuade you to leave now, at least promise me you will if he even looks like he’ll get violent again.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. “I can handle him. I’m still here after all these years, aren’t I?”

  I want to say only just, but I have a foot in the door and I don’t want it slamming in my face. “You can’t expect me to be comfortable with that. I’m looking for you to compromise, Savannah. Please.”

  “Okay. If I feel like I’m in real danger, I’ll … check in to a hotel.”

  I nod sarcastically. “What, with your soda money? You haven’t got a pot to piss in, Savannah. You said as much yourself. You’ll call me. I’ll come get you—”

  “No!”

  “Christ, you’re infuriating, woman!” I can’t help it. “Meet me halfway, for the love of God.” Her blue eyes spark with anger, and I think she’s about to leave, so I grapple for a recovery. “Okay, I’ve got it. Angel. If you’re in trouble, you go to Angel.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a pen and a business card, scribbling Ethan and Angel’s address on the back. Then I tug a bunch of notes from my wallet and thrust them all into her hands. “You jump in the nearest cab and you go to Angel. Promise me.”

  She seems to think about it for a long time before nodding once and stuffing everything into her jeans pocket. “Anything else?”