She Belongs to Me

by Carmen DeSousa

  “But Jordan,” his tone softened, “we cannot be certain she will endure the evening. Even if she does, there is no way to distinguish what damage the bullet inflicted until she awakes.”

  Jordan swallowed hard. “But she survived the surgery,” he repeated, as if to hear it again.

  “Yes, she did. We have her in a drug-induced coma, and we won’t attempt to revive her until the cranial pressure decreases. She couldn’t tolerate the pain if we did.” The doctor patted Jordan’s arm. “You can see Caycee now, Jordan, and you need to talk to her. Studies indicate numerous coma patients respond to a loved one’s voice.”

  “Jaynee…” Jordan said emphatically, drawing in a breath and shaking his head in disbelief. “Please, call her Jaynee. She doesn’t like Caycee. Please inform the nurses.” The doctor nodded, and Jordan stood. “I’d like to see my wife now.”

  Doctor McMullen led him down the hall and stopped in front of one of the ICU rooms. Jordan felt the man’s cool hands on his forearm, but couldn’t see his face through his tears. With a final squeeze of consolation, the doctor turned and left him alone.

  Jordan walked tremulously into the cold, antiseptic-scented room. He felt as if his legs had vanished from underneath him and he would collapse to the floor at any moment.

  Jaynee lay motionless on the bed. Wires leading from her body connected to several machines that created an ominous cacophony and an eerie, yellowish glow in the small room. It looked like a scene from a movie. Under the fluorescent lights, her skin was pallid, except around her eyes which had splotches of crimson and were swollen and puffy. And worse, where her beautiful tresses of curls should be…was nothing but white gauze.

  Jordan lowered his head to her ear. “I love you, Jaynee. No matter what’s been going on, I love you, and I know you love me too.” Jordan believed the words, wanted the words to be true. But he couldn’t help but wonder what was so awful that his wife would attempt to take her life. Unless…was there something he didn’t know about her?

  63

  Carmen DeSousa

  Chapter One

  (Five years earlier - September 2004)

  C.J. tapped her foot as the kid sitting in the front row attempted to sidetrack Professor Rawlings again with his incessant questions about the life of Hemmingway. Everyone knew the Professor would go off on a tangent and they’d run out of time and be dismissed. The plan had backfired, however. It was time to leave, and here they still sat as the teacher droned on about his favorite author.

  C.J. rarely minded. She enjoyed listening to the professor. But today was Wednesday, and she had an early shift at the steakhouse. She checked the time on her cell phone for the tenth time in five minutes. She couldn’t be late.

  Tim, the general manager, scheduled her for as many early shifts as possible, because she was one of the few employees who always showed up on time and was willing to close if needed. Because of this, she also received the largest stations. The way she figured…if she had to be there…might as well make as much money as possible. As a college student, she was able to pay her bills working only three days a week. If she picked up extra shifts, the money was gravy and went toward her savings. And more importantly, the extra shifts didn’t affect her studying anymore, because in the last year, she had stopped dating altogether.

  The lecture ended, and the professor excused the class. “Don’t forget your novella due next week. Make sure it’s not tedious. I loathe boring stories. And if it makes me laugh, you’ll receive extra points. Also, drinking and fishing are always excellent subjects,” he finished his montage as the students hurriedly exited the classroom.

  Yep, he loved Hemmingway and wanted to be just like him. Well, he’d have to make do with her paper. It was everything he had said not to write. It was very sad; it was real life. It did have drinking and fishing, but not quite what he was referring to, she was pretty sure.

  C.J. drove to the post office on the way to work. Her twenty-second birthday was a little over a week away, and though she and her mother weren’t close, her mother always sent her a hundred bucks for her birthday. And her best friend, Rainey, always sent a funny card. They’d been friends since third grade—until C.J. moved from South Florida that is.

  They’d managed to visit each other a couple times over the last four years, but mostly they just kept in touch by email. It hadn’t been the same, and she missed her friend terribly; she was the only one that knew what she’d been through. But Rainey had been preoccupied with finishing college, and C.J. had been busy wasting her life. Every time she thought about the wasted years, she literally felt sick inside. Why had she been such a fool?

  Resolute to change her life for the better, C.J. started back to college. She was determined not to further squander away anymore of her youthful years.

  Parking alongside the building, she sprinted from the car then ran inside, grabbed the handful of envelopes, jumped back in her car and was on her way to work in seconds.

  It was ridiculous she used a post office box, but old habits are hard to break. After high school she moved around a lot and always used her grandmother’s address. It would be easy enough to use her home address now that she had her own place, but after some issues with her ex-boyfriend, she decided it was for the best. She chanced a sideways glance at the bills and letters on the passenger seat as she sped down the road. The extra-large, pink envelope from her mother was easy to recognize. As if sending her a card a couple times a year could change the past.

  She looked down at the seat again and another envelope stopped her heart. She recognized the handwriting. She’d made herself clear in her last correspondence not to write or contact her again. They were over. Angrily, she stuffed the letter in her work apron. It was going straight into the dumpster where she wouldn’t even be tempted to read his response to her rejection.

  C.J. didn’t understand her luck with dating or all the men in her life for that matter. Clinching the steering wheel, she sucked in a breath to calm herself. She refused to let any man ever bring her down again. She was a “good” person. She didn’t smoke or do drugs and rarely drank. Still, she suffered two horrific relationships in high school, and after moving to the Tampa Bay area four years earlier, dated several delinquents before finding herself in a real predicament.

  What had she done to deserve the cards life handed her? The more she thought about it, the madder she got. She didn’t perceive herself as wild looking. But every time she’d meet what looked to be a nice guy—one who had a vehicle and an occupation anyway—they’d go out and wind up at some gathering. The next thing she knew her date would drop down and do a line of coke or light up a joint.

  God and C.J. had always been on friendly terms, but now He was even ticking her off. She prayed nightly for a decent man. Maybe God was irritated because she hadn’t been to church in forever. It wasn’t anything personal with Him; she just couldn’t contend with the charlatans. The last thing she wanted to do was be a hypocrite herself. So for the past year, since He hadn’t been answering her prayers, she decided the better path was to abstain from dating altogether.

  C.J. drove swiftly into the restaurant parking lot in her Ford Focus, parked in the rear and trotted into the restaurant.

  After she clocked in, she set out to do her prep work. She was on ice tea duty today. Then she’d just have to roll silverware until her first customer arrived. Usually one of her regular retirees would show up for the early bird dinner and save her from the monotonous task.

  Amy, the hostess, meandered through the service doors minutes after the restaurant opened. “C.J., you have a table.” C.J. looked up and saw her grinning. Amy didn’t usually inform the wait staff when they had a customer. Management expected servers to pay attention.

  Happy to have a customer, she grabbed her apron to leave but noticed Amy still standing there with a stupid grin plastered on her face. “What? Did I forget something?” C.J. asked. She looked herself over to make certain she wasn’t wearing flip-flops or
something abnormal. Once, in a hurry, she’d grabbed one each of two different pairs of shoes. The crazy part was, it took hours before she or anyone else even noticed.

  “Nope. Just wanted to let you know you have a guest. A one-top in booth six,” she replied in a drolly manner.

  Oh great, she must have ticked her off. Amy knew servers hated single diners. Typically she sat them in the lounge area. Single diners were a waste of table space, as you only made half a normal tip. C.J. needed the money and a single diner wasn’t going to pay her bills.

  She glowered at Amy whose smile had not diminished.

  “What?” she asked, raising her hands in frustration. The evening wasn’t starting well. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Just want to see your reaction.” Amy smirked then turned to walk away, but paused at the doorway. “I’ll be nearby if you need any help,” she called out, finally leaving the kitchen with C.J. staring after her.

  “Why would I need help?” she muttered, rolling her eyes at Amy’s retreating backside.

  Content she didn’t have to continue rolling silverware, she ventured off to greet her guest. She dug in her apron for a pen, trying not to think about the crumbled letter. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Distracted, she didn’t bother looking at her patron. “Hi, my name is C.J. I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with something to drink?” she asked, raising her eyes from her ticket book as she awaited an answer.

  At that precise moment, the man sitting at her booth looked up from his menu, acknowledging her presence.

  Wow! Now she understood Amy’s grin and offer to assist. She gawked in awe. The man at her table was a real looker. Not in a generic, Hollywood way. He was a genuine, all-American, striking male. The man’s face, chiseled and sculpted to perfection, stared back: square chin, high cheekbones and angular nose, all framed by a neatly trimmed beard trailing up his jaw that only added to his rugged look. His hair was a deep brown, almost black and cropped short, military-style. His build also resembled an officer of some sort. His shoulders were broad and held back in perfect posture, and based on their width, she now understood the need for a larger booth.

  But his eyes were the best. He had a lightly tanned complexion with dark brows and under thick eyelashes were a set of arresting, steel-blue eyes. They were beautiful, but the shock of electricity that shot through her the moment he looked up was incapacitating. She couldn’t think. “Wow” wasn’t quite enough. She saw Amy peer around the corner, her grin wide, apparently pleased with her reaction. Then she winked and turned away, leaving C.J. to her own devices.

  The man’s eyes held contact with hers for a few seconds. “Yes, ma’am, do you have sweet tea?” His accent was strong and southern.

  “Call me C.J. please, and yes, we do. I made it myself,” she answered too fast, not contemplating her words. Why did she feel the need to offer that information? As if it mattered who brewed the tea.

  “Sounds good, C.J., I’ll take that then.” His cute southern drawl made her initials sound like two words the way he drew them out, and the heartbreaking smile sent a shiver down her spine. When he smiled, she noticed fine tan lines feathering from the corners of his eyes similar to her father. Her dad was the only man who had ever made her laugh. A pang of longing hit her hard.

  “I’ll give you a couple minutes and be right back with your tea.” Her voice cracked, and she turned away from him to retreat to the safety of the kitchen.

  Entering the kitchen, she whooshed out the breath she’d been holding. What the heck was happening? Why was her stomach doing loop-de-loops? Why did this guy stride in here looking all masculine and start her heart pounding? It felt as if she was shocked with one of those heart-thingies, and her heart was beating for the first time in years. She gripped the letter in her apron she hadn’t discarded yet. It was a significant reminder not to let a man’s cute smile influence her.

  Get a hold of yourself, she thought. He’s just a guy. So he was good looking. What difference did that make? The men she dated were always attractive. Maybe that was her predicament.

  Pulling in a deep, relaxing breath through her nostrils, she held it a couple of seconds and then let it out in a slow exhale. “There,” she said aloud. “That’s better.”

  She busied herself with getting his drink. What was she worried about anyway? He looked like a nice guy, not at all her variety of man. It wasn’t as if he’d even be interested. Guys like him were never attracted to her. She only managed to be a magnet for trouble, men who looked good on the outside but were horrible inside.

  Jordan wilted into his booth disorientated.

  He just gaped at the waitress when she requested his drink order. He didn’t understand what had happened, but he’d felt the electricity ignite. He’d read about it, saw it in movies and heard his grandmother’s accounts, but he had never experienced it. The strike was instantaneous. What had Nanna called it? The thunderbolt, or was it lightning bolt? He may not remember the name, but it had happened. The second his eyes connected with hers, he felt the charge. It was as if his entire being was struck, and everything he wanted or ever desired was wrapped up in this moment, in this girl. He should leave. This couldn’t be happening, not here. She was pretty, but it wasn’t that. There was something about her. He felt drawn to her. He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave even if he wanted to escape this emotion. It was too powerful.

  C.J. placed his beverage on the coaster and smiled. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Um…yes, ma’am, I’ll take the sirloin, medium-well please.” Shoot, he reprimanded himself. She requested he call her C.J., but he couldn’t help it. It was the way a respectful southerner spoke.

  “Sir, not to be intrusive but can I recommend either ordering your steak medium or switching to the strip steak? Or, alternatively, we could butterfly it. Our steaks are thick, and sirloin can be tough if overcooked.”

  He smiled up at her, unable to contain the pleasure soaring through his body at this simple gesture. As if she wanted to take care of him. Of course, she probably offered this to all her customers. “Butterflying it will be fine, thank you.” He tipped his head in a respectful manner.

  She wrote down his order, and he watched her saunter away. Warmth rushed his veins. He had to make her his.

  Never having asked a waitress out before, he wondered how he would go about such an undertaking. Men probably hit on her all the time. She was pretty, a natural beauty, even without makeup. Her dark hair was up in a ponytail, but a few strands had escaped. He felt the urge to tuck them behind her ear just to touch her hair.

  But her eyes were her most incredible feature. They were a deep hazel, like cat’s eyes, standing out in contrast to her olive skin. Her body was also perfect, not like all the bony, thin girls he saw around here. She was small but shapely, about 5’3 he guessed. He liked that too. She was perfect for his six-foot frame.

  Where was his imagination going already, perfect for what…dancing? He chastised himself but knew he couldn’t let her escape without at least attempting to see if there was anything under her cover, as his mother had always put it. Was she just a simple-minded waitress? She didn’t sound unintelligent. No matter the looks, he could never deal with ignorance. He needed someone with whom he could relate.

  Again, his thoughts were uncontainable. He only just saw this girl and was already sizing up whether she was worthy. No doubt she’d think he was an ignorant hick anyway. Women loved his southern accent but were always surprised when there was more behind his drawl than just a country boy.

  She stopped back by the table with a pitcher of tea. He looked up at her and couldn’t have prevented the smile he gave her, even if he’d tried. “What does C.J. stand for?”

  “I never tell anyone. It’s a secret,” she whispered, then smiled and walked away.

  What did that mean? She smiled sweetly, but also dismissed him.

  His eyes followed her as she approached an older couple. She sat down beside the m
an as if she knew him. A protective, jealous instinct crept up out of nowhere.

  Seriously, man, get a grip. He’s like seventy something.

  Jordan wasn’t jealous of the man, he realized. He was envious she wasn’t sitting, talking and laughing with him. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than just that.

  C.J. disappeared into the kitchen again, returning a few minutes later with drinks for the couple and a salad, which must be his. He was proficient at reading people. What she did next would determine if he would act on his feelings.

  If she delivered the drinks before his salad, she might be interested. If she dropped off his salad first, so she could go back and converse with the couple, then he’d know to just forget about trying to approach her and always wonder…what if?

  Passing right by him, she turned her attention to the couple. He smiled, pleased with this simple outcome. Watching the effortless sway of her walk as she returned to him, he almost let out a woo-hoo. But then, she placed his salad and bread down and turned to disappear again.

  “Excuse me, C.J.?” he spoke in a rushed panic, a pathetic endeavor to keep her with him.

  “Yes?” She turned back, her dazzling eyes bright and beautiful. “Did you need something?”

  He stifled a chuckle. How juvenile he felt. He was acting as if he was seventeen not twenty-seven.

  “Why is it a secret?” he blurted out the first question that came to mind.

  She shook her head slightly and huffed. “My name?”

  “Yes, why won’t you tell me your actual name?”

  “Well,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “I just don’t like it. Besides, no one forgets C.J. It’s easy to remember which brings my customers back to me.”

  Her eyes narrowed, showing a little crinkle between them. She looked up and flicked a look around the room as if expecting someone to charge through the door. He’d seen this look before—in victims.