Rain Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 5)

by Catherine Gayle

  I clung to it as if my life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  “SHE SEEMED TO understand what was going on for a little while,” Dana said when I walked into Natalie’s hospital room for my night shift with her, a few days after the ordeal. “It felt like she recognized she was safe and we were trying to help her. But then one of the doctors came in to check on her, and she started freaking out again. They had to give her another dose of the antipsychotics to calm her down so she wouldn’t try to rip out the breathing tube.”

  “And then she was back in la-la land,” Tallie finished.

  I looked down at Natalie’s sleeping form. Even in her sleep, she seemed tortured. Her eyes were moving at a frantic pace behind her eyelids. Her brows kept drawing together. In fear? In pain? Maybe a combination of them both and Lord only knew what else.

  “You two should get out of here,” I said, dragging an uncomfortable, low-backed lavender armchair closer to Natalie’s hospital bed and taking up my spot for my nightly vigil. I’d been sleeping upright in a chair by her bedside, standing guard over her lifeless form, close enough I could stroke the back of her hand or move the hair away from her eyes. Close enough that I’d recognize even the slightest change, so I could relay it to the nurses whenever they made their rounds.

  The room smelled the same way every time I came in—a combination of antiseptic and the sweet, lemony soap they used to bathe her, all tinged around the edges with fear and just a hint of hope.

  Too much fear; not enough hope.

  At this point, the doctors were relatively certain that Natalie would survive. What sort of condition she’d be in when they woke her up remained a mystery. I intended to be with her when we found out, no matter if it was good news or bad news.

  “Go get some rest,” I added when my teammates’ wives didn’t immediately leave. “Your kids need you.”

  Dana scowled, but she didn’t argue with me when I brought up the kids. Finally, she started gathering up her things. “Promise you’ll get some sleep in the recliner, at least.”

  “I can’t sleep in those recliners,” I pointed out. “They’re too small for either of you. How the hell am I supposed to fit my body in one of those things?”

  “Well, you should see if they can bring a cot in here for you, at least,” she countered, apparently conceding that point.

  “I’ll go ask at the nurses’ station,” Tallie put in.

  “I don’t need a cot,” I argued, because I had no intention of sleeping, but Tallie had already darted out the door.

  “You’ve got to get some rest,” Dana said. “You won’t be any use to her or anyone else if you’re not taking care of yourself.”

  Rest? That wouldn’t be happening any time soon. I felt as if I hadn’t properly slept in a month. Certainly not in the days since I’d hauled Natalie’s almost lifeless body away from that house.

  Regardless, Tallie and one of the nurses came back with a cot, albeit one that wasn’t anywhere near long enough to fit me comfortably, much like the recliners. Hospital furniture wasn’t made with someone of my stature in mind. I stood six and a half feet tall in my stocking feet, and I weighed over two hundred thirty pounds. I might crush the hospital’s cot if I tried to sleep on it.

  Nevertheless, the nurses brought it in and set it up on the floor near Natalie’s bed, along with a pillow and blanket, still leaving enough room for the doctors and nurses to do whatever they’d need to do for her if I was asleep.

  Then Tallie and Dana headed home for the night.

  I wouldn’t be using it. I had no intention of sleeping while I was here, watching over Natalie.

  Every time I managed to doze off, I wished I hadn’t, because something would happen. Some small change in her color or breathing that I might miss, or else my subconscious would take me back to images of the way I’d found her, mixed in with memories from my own childhood and my father beating the shit out of me.

  Better to stay awake.

  I felt tortured, but not in the same way Natalie had been. My torture was all internalized, living fully inside my head and wreaking havoc on me.

  Because I could have stopped this from happening.

  I could have prevented it. I could have dragged her home with me that night, dragged her kicking and screaming if necessary, but at least she wouldn’t be in this kind of shape now if I’d done that.

  She would have been safe. She would have been whole.

  But then again, Lennon and his buddies would have gotten off if I’d done that. They might have gotten away scot-free, no matter how many times they’d done this kind of thing to her in the past.

  Lennon might still get off, actually—a thought that sickened me like none other since his involvement was the most atrocious. He was the one she’d been dating. The one who should have loved her and taken care of her. Who should’ve protected her from sick fucks like his friends and himself.

  His buddies had been captured on the cell phone video I’d taken with me, but Lennon wasn’t in a single frame. There weren’t any other videos or photos on the phone that would incriminate him, even though everyone knew he wasn’t just involved but was the worst monster of them all.

  His DNA had been found on and inside Natalie’s body along with the other two bastards’ DNA when they’d done the rape kit, but since they’d been cohabiting for so long, that wasn’t enough to nail him for his crimes.

  It could have been consensual, theoretically, before the other guys had gotten involved.

  At least, that was what the cops said Lennon’s defense attorneys would argue, and there wasn’t any way to prove he’d raped and supposedly beaten her.

  Which was complete and total bullshit if you asked me.

  How could anyone look at this woman and think any part of what she’d been through had been consensual? That she’d wanted what they’d done to her?

  But they said they needed more proof.

  The cops had taken Lennon in for questioning. But since his buddies hadn’t ratted him out and Natalie was still too sick to tell anyone anything, they hadn’t arrested him.

  Soon, hopefully.

  They kept telling me they were working on putting together a case against him, enough that they could get an arraignment.

  Enough that it would hold up.

  For now, he’d only gone in to answer their questions a few times.

  That, at least, had been enough for the team to warrant suspending him indefinitely without pay, pending the results of an internal investigation into the matter. But they’d only done so after I’d taken up the case with the Jernigans, who owned the team.

  Mr. Jernigan was the preacher at one of the biggest evangelical churches in the country, one that had a nationally syndicated television broadcast of their services.

  I’d had to appeal to his wife, who had always been overly concerned with appearances, asking if she wanted their church members to know they were employing a rapist and an abuser. The woman had tried to institute a swear jar in our locker room, for fuck’s sake, so I doubted she’d want to have a piece of shit of Lennon’s caliber associated with their church, their team, their brand, their image.

  That, finally, had done the job when nothing else had gotten through to them.

  She’d gone to the coaching staff and the general manager and put her foot down, insisting that Lennon couldn’t play again until and unless he was cleared of all wrongdoing involving Natalie.

  Which wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen.

  But a suspension still wasn’t enough for me.

  It was only temporary.

  The shit he’d done to Natalie? That was permanent. I wanted the son of a bitch to rot in jail for all the shit he’d done to her.

  So I’d made it known to everyone involved with the team that I wouldn’t ever step out on the ice with the son of a bitch again.

  Never.

  Either he had to go or I did.

  They could suspend my ass for refusing to pl
ay. Whatever. I didn’t care.

  But I wasn’t suiting up and fighting alongside that bastard ever again. If I did, I’d probably kill him with my bare hands while an entire arena full of people watched, not to mention potentially millions of people looking on at home.

  I doubted the aftermath of something like that would appeal to any of them.

  Sure enough, once I’d laid down my ultimatum, they’d suspended Lennon and not me.

  But the son of a bitch still hadn’t been arrested.

  I kept hoping the security cameras from the BOK Center would have caught some footage of Lennon beating the shit out of Natalie in the parking lot that night, but somehow not a single camera had captured it.

  Don’t ask me how that was possible, since they had cameras on almost every fucking lamp post, but none had recorded any footage of him. There was one where I could tell they were just out of the frame, because it showed me picking up Carter and rushing off the screen, but none of the others had been focused on us once I’d caught up to the bastard.

  One of the cops had suggested that Lennon had planned it that way—he’d parked in an area where he’d known there wouldn’t be any cameras on his car, and he’d waited until they were out of range before beginning his attack.

  That only made it worse, in my mind, because it meant this hadn’t been some random outburst. The assault hadn’t been triggered by anything Natalie had done or failed to do; Lennon had been planning it all along. Having his buddies at the house and ready to join in only drove that point home further.

  Regardless, he wasn’t on any of the film, so proving his involvement was going to be tricky. Essentially, until Natalie woke up and was coherent enough to talk about it, everything that had gone down that night boiled down to it being my word against his.

  The investigators had talked to Carter before I’d put him on a plane to go home to his mother. He’d told them what we’d seen in the parking lot, but the word of a seven-year-old boy apparently wouldn’t hold much weight in court.

  Bullshit if you asked me. I’d have been a hell of a witness against my father at that age, if anyone would have bothered to notice he was beating the shit out of me.

  But no dice. They weren’t going to involve Carter in things.

  So now, we had to wait for Natalie to heal enough that she could talk about it.

  And hope that she would.

  Since she’d finally asked for help—albeit almost too late for me to do any good—I hoped she’d be ready to put the assholes responsible for her condition behind bars.

  But first we needed her to wake up…and I had no idea what to expect once she did.

  After Dana and Tallie had gathered up all of their things and left to go home for the night, I gingerly took Natalie’s hand in mine, silently willing her to keep fighting.

  The sons of bitches had broken her right eye socket, her nose, a couple of ribs, and her left leg. The broken ribs had punctured her spleen, which had necessitated the doctors opening her up and doing some internal repairs. And with all the facial fractures, she’d had a ton of swelling, which made it difficult for her to breathe, and they’d had to intubate her for a few days.

  In her sleep, she’d kept trying to rip the tube out of her throat, so they’d put her on more medications to keep her calm, but those medications sometimes caused hallucinations, according to her nurses.

  In short, there was no telling what she thought was happening to her.

  Could it be worse than what she’d already been living through for God only knew how long? Maybe, although I couldn’t imagine much being worse than the way I’d found her.

  All I knew was that the doctors and nurses, and especially the WAGs who’d been sitting with her during the times I couldn’t be there, told me she was calmer when I was with her than when I wasn’t.

  I wished I could sit by her side all the time. I was damned sure going to sit here as much as I possibly could, because I needed her to be calm, to feel safe and secure and protected, so she could heal.

  And I needed to be the one to protect her when it was all said and done. Not that I could explain why, exactly, other than the fact that I knew her.

  Maybe I didn’t know Natalie very well in some ways. I couldn’t name her favorite movies or TV shows or musicians. I didn’t know if she liked to read or swim or go nature hiking.

  But I knew her better than she could possibly realize in other ways.

  I knew the fear she’d been living in.

  I knew she probably blamed herself, even if somewhere, deep inside, she knew that was bullshit and there was no one to blame but the sons of bitches who’d hurt her.

  I knew she’d spend the rest of her life trying to get past it but that she never truly would—because this wasn’t the sort of thing a person could ever just get over.

  I knew she’d be lucky if she could come out of this and begin to live any semblance of a normal life.

  I knew she might never trust another man again, let alone be brave enough to let someone love her, and that broke my heart for her. Because of a few assholes, she might spend her life pushing good men away.

  She might push me away.

  And if she did, I had to find the strength to allow it, because I would never, not ever, force anything on any woman. And I especially wouldn’t force myself upon her, not even if I knew having me in her life would be for the best.

  So while I might not know her favorite color, I knew Natalie.

  And my heart broke for her.

  I wanted to help her.

  I wanted her to know that, while some men were absolute pieces of shit, there were some good guys out there, too.

  I wanted her to smile and laugh and live.

  I wanted her to be free, but I knew enough to realize I might be asking for too much.

  She might never be free.

  But if I had anything to say about it, she’d have a chance. And that was more than a lot of people in her position would ever get.

  If anyone should know and understand that, it was me. I’d fought for my chance.

  Now I had to convince Natalie to fight for hers.

  SOMETIMES WHEN I woke up, I was alone with the beeping machines and the awful fluorescent lighting and the voices paging doctors and nurses over the hospital’s intercom system, unable to move a muscle or speak. I sometimes tried to speak, but I couldn’t make much sound—barely more than a squeak—and no one was there to hear me anyway, even if I could have called out at the top of my lungs.

  Other times, a nurse would be in the room with me, changing out the IV bag or checking my vital signs. “You’re looking a lot better. You’re getting your color back,” they’d invariably say, but that only made me wonder, better than what? Because I felt like death, and not even the warmed-over variety. Or an orderly might say, “Why don’t you try sitting up in the chair for a while? Or we could at least raise your bed to a sitting position. You’re going to have to start moving around on your own soon, you know.”

  But I didn’t know anything of the sort.

  Dead people didn’t move, as far as I was aware. And wasn’t I at least halfway to dead? I had to be. Except, every time they said something like that to me, I felt a little less dead than I had the time before, which frustrated me every bit as much as it gave them encouragement.

  Then there were the times that I came to and small groupings of women and sometimes children surrounded me. They were familiar to me, even though I couldn’t place them at first. But gradually their names started coming back to me, and I could match them up with their faces.

  There was Dana Zellinger and her passel of kids and the understanding smile she always bore whenever she’d speak to me. She had a calming, soothing presence, even amidst the chaos that was now my life.

  And then, there was Viktoriya Chambers, the ballerina who brought me delicate, homemade Russian desserts. “Svetka taught me,” she’d say, her accent heavy, and she’d pass them out to the nurses, as well, because this Svetka
, whoever that was, had also taught Viktoriya the importance of feeding everyone she came into contact with, and particularly those who were caring for others.

  Ravyn Nash was unforgettable because of her head full of lavender dreadlocks as well as the bright tattoos covering her body. She spent most of her visits quietly sketching in a chair by the window, using pens and markers and pastels. Occasionally she asked if I needed anything, to which I could only shake my head. Sometimes, she would show me the sketches. One was a butterfly perched on a flower. Another was a stained-glass window with a naked woman stepping under a waterfall. They were tattoos she was designing for her clients, she told me. But there was one she wouldn’t show me at all. I yearned to know what it was at the same time as I dreaded it—because she kept glancing over at me while she worked, and I was afraid she was drawing me.

  London Nazarenko tended to sit next to my bed in her wheelchair, talking my ear off about how we were going to have races once they let me out of the bed and put me in a wheelchair of my own. The thought of wheelchair races only made me wonder if I would never be able to walk again. I tried wiggling my toes every time she talked about those things, and it seemed as if they all moved, but I couldn’t see them to be sure. My left ankle wouldn’t move at all, though. My knee wouldn’t move either, actually. And since no one could understand anything I said—my voice was completely gone, and I didn’t have any idea when it would return, if ever—worst of all, I couldn’t ask anyone to explain it to me. She usually had her son with her, a toddler named Erik, who liked to eat the scrambled eggs they brought me every morning but I couldn’t choke down. I was happy to let him have them.

  But more often when I woke, Ethan Higgins was by my bed.

  Somehow, I could breathe more freely when he was with me. I didn’t feel strangled or suffocated. I didn’t feel as if my pulse would slow to a crawl and then gradually die off; instead, it thumped strong enough I could count off every beat, almost so loud I could hear it.

  With everyone else, I felt frustrated because I couldn’t tell them what I needed to tell them. I got annoyed if they hovered too much, or if they didn’t hover enough, and I could vacillate between the two in an instant because I couldn’t do anything for myself, not even something as simple as opening the container of orange juice they brought daily with my breakfast, or wrangling my fork out of the plastic packaging surrounding my utensils and napkin.